The Phantom and The Siren
by Angel of Iowa
Summary: What if Christine wasn't the disregarded beauty of the ballet corps? What if she was disfigured as well, and haunted the Populaire alongside Erik as a Ghost? He is the fearsome Phantom, she the mysterious Siren. What happens when a certain Vicomte shows up?
1. The debut of the myth

**The Phantom and The Siren**

Prologue

"Madame, I promise, she will be safe with me." The man in the white mask said to the woman dressed in black. "But only if you can let her go, now."

The woman shed a few tears and nodded. "One moment, please. I need to say goodbye." The man nodded.

The woman bent down to embrace the young, curly-haired child next to her. "Be good, my dear girl. He will take care of you now. He will keep you safe."

The girl just looked at her mother with a tired smile. "Yes, maman. I'll be good for the monsieur."

The curly-haired child took the man's outstretched hand. She followed him quietly down a long hallway for a while, until she began to stumble as her eyes refused to stay open. The man swung her up into his arms, and she buried her head into his neck.

"Monsieur?" she yawned.

"Yes, child? What is it?"

"What is your name?" she asked innocently.

"My name is Erik, my dear. What's yours?" he asked in return, although he already knew.

"My name's Christine." She answered before falling asleep on Erik's shoulder.

Erik stopped and looked at the tiny child in his arms. _'You will be safe, ma cheri. I promise you, I will keep you safe.'_

15 years later…

"Erik, come on! We're going to be late for rehearsal!" Christine yelled, adjusting her mask.

"I'm coming, darling." He called back.

Erik chuckled and shook his head. Kissing Christine on the cheek, he took her hand and pulled her along after him. He reflected on the events that brought them together, as he did every morning. _'If that fire hadn't burned her, she might have had a normal life. But she'd be just another ballet rat, instead of The Siren.'_

They reached the theater, and climbed into their usual places: Erik in the flies, Christine up by the chandelier. They watched as the troupe rehearsed Hannibal for the third time in five years. The familiar routine was broken by the arrival of Monsieur Lefevre and three strangers, all men.

' _So, the opera house is under new management.'_ Christine thought. _'That's too bad, I liked Monsieur Lefevre. Let's just hope that the new ones will obey the rules. Erik'll be very angry if they don't…'_

"I have a message, sir, from the opera ghosts." Madame Giry's voice floated up to the ghosts in question.

"Ghosts? You mean we've bought a haunted opera house?" Monsieur Andre asked disbelievingly.

"Don't be silly, Andre, ghosts aren't real." His partner, Firman, shot back.

"Don't be so sure, messieurs. Two ghosts haunt the Opera Populaire. We're lucky- most theatres don't have intelligent ghosts. They merely welcome you to their opera house-"

"THEIR opera house!?"

"And they remind you that their salaries are due."

"Their salaries?!"

"well, Messieur Lefevre used to give the Phantom 20,000 francs a month, while the Siren receives 10,000 a month." Madame Giry said, betraying no emotion.

"This is simply ridiculous. These so-called "ghosts" expect to be paid 30,000 francs a month? What do they do to earn these 'salaries'?" the tall, blond man asked.

"And who, precisely, are you monsieur?" asked Madame Giry.

"This is the Vicomte de Chagny, our new patron." Andre proudly announced.

"Well, Monsieur le Vicomte, the Phantom informs the managers of performers and stagehands who aren't working at the acceptable standard. The Siren, she's the Phantom's companion. She protects the dancers and chorus, and both of them are musicians, composers. If you're lucky, you may one day have the chance to see one of their works."

The Vicomte snorted. "Lucky? Madame, if I order it, these "ghosts" will compose a thousand operas." He stated arrogantly.

"And why, precisely, would either of them do that?" Madame Giry asked innocently.

"Because even ghosts must obey their superiors!" the Vicomte declared. "I am le Vicomte de Chagny, and someday I'll be le Comte. I promise you, Madame, Messieurs, Mademoiselles, I shall rid the theater of this scourge! If it even exists." He muttered under his breath.

"Monsieur, the theater has not suffered for having the ghosts around. In fact, several times the two of them have saved this theater from ruin."

The vicomte just smiled patronizingly at Madame Giry. It was obvious that he thought her just a simple commoner, and a woman at that. He turned and walked away, winking roguishly at the ballet girls, who giggled and battled their eyelashes at him.

A deep, hot anger filled Erik's heart. _'How dare this fop enter OUR opera house and deem us scourged, that HE must rid them of. I must find Christine; it's time to put our plan into play.'_

Christine sensed her lover's anger, and hurried to his side to calm him. "Erik, love, calm down. He'll bring the gendarmes in for a performance or two, and then he'll forget we exist. Don't do anything rash."

"Too late. Take a look onstage; your debut will be tonight." Erik said in a dark voice.

Christine swiftly turned around just in time to see Carlotta stomp off the stage in a fury so typical of her. The panicked voices of the managers reached their ears, lamenting the refund of a full house.

"Messieurs?" Madame Giry asked. "There is one woman who can take La Carlotta's place. You mustn't judge her by her appearance, though."

The managers exchanged a skeptical glance. "Well, let her sing. We don't exactly have any other choice, do we?" Andre conceded.

She smiled. "Very wise choice, gentlemen. I'll go retrieve her." she walked backstage. "Christine? Erik? Are you there?"

Christine appeared from the shadows, with an annoyed look on her masked face. She followed the black-clad ballet mistress onstage.

"This is the girl? Why does she wear a mask? Who is she?" the managers asked one after the other.

"I will sing for you, messieurs. Who I am and why I wear a mask are not important. My voice is the only thing you need from me." Christine stated.

The two men looked at each other. "Very well, Mademoiselle. We'll accede to your wishes; we don't exactly have much of a choice. From the beginning of the song." Firman sighed.

The music started, and Christine began to sing. Everyone stopped and listened to the sound emerging from the lips of the masked woman. After five years of listening to La Carlotta, they were amazed. This girl didn't screech…didn't wail the lower notes…didn't use enough vibrato to collapse the building. Her voice was sweet and clear, with a crystalline quality that made every heart on the stage ache for the beauty of it. When Christine walked off the stage that night, the stage was not visible underneath the flowers the audience had thrown.

Christine pushed her way through the crowd and entered the Prima Donna's dressing room, which was covered wall to wall with flowers. She locked the door, and when she turned, her masked lover was waiting for her, smiling. The masked Prima took two steps forward and slumped into her lover's waiting arms.

"You brought God to his knees tonight with your singing, my love. I couldn't be more proud of you." Erik murmured into Christine's silky curls.

She smiled. "I thought you didn't believe in God."

He backed off a step and held her shoulders. "I hold one of his angels in my arms. How could I not?"

Christine shook her head and sighed. "Erik…"

Erik bent his head and claimed her lips. Wrapped around each other as they were, they almost didn't hear the knocking on the dressing room door. As it started to open, Erik tore himself from Christine and bolted behind the mirror.

"Ah, Mademoiselle. There you are. You were absolutely wonderful tonight. Oh, where are my manners? I am the Vicomte de Chagny, the new patron. But you, my dear, may call me Raoul." He preened.

Christine smirked. "And does your rank as a Vicomte give you the right to enter a woman's dressing room uninvited, Monsieur? I did not give you permission to enter. I could have been indecent."

The blonde gave the masked beauty what he supposed was a seductive smile. "I don't think you'd truly object to that particular situation, mademoiselle. But why discuss it, when I can show you?" he said, moving slowly closer.

"Monsieur, I must ask you to leave. This conversation is wildly inappropriate, and I have no desire to share your society." She snapped.

"Why don't you start by removing that little mask of yours? A pretty thing like you shouldn't cover her face…" he muttered.

Christine kept backing away from the Vicomte, yet he didn't notice. She was about to release the catch on the mirror to escape, when the blonde man reached out and yanked off her mask. Before he could remove anything else or truly see what lay beneath the covering, the room went dark and he felt something hard connect with his jaw. A light flashed briefly, and then he felt no more.

When he awakened, groaning, the masked lady was nowhere in sight. He looked in the mirror and fingered the bruise on his face. He picked up the envelope lying next to his leg and examined it. It was sealed with a red wax skull with an ocean wave at the back. He opened it and read the note inside.

 _Monsieur,_ it read,

 _You have made a grave error in interfering in our affairs. Because you do not know the rules, we have chosen not to end your life. But rest assured, if you pursue us, we will not hesitate. Obey the ghosts, and you will be spared. Disobey, and we will kill you. Do not test us, Vicomte. We have more power than you know._

 _PtO, StO_


	2. A Promise Already Broken

Erik paced furiously back and forth in front of the fire. Christine lounged maskless on the chaise behind him, observing. She knew that her companion was angry, but that wasn't going to stop her from admiring the attractive masculinity of his form. It wasn't often that she got the chance to look at him without him noticing and making her blush.

"How are you so calm about this, Christine? He removed your mask! Your shield against the world! And you sit there as calmly as if he had simply complimented your performance and left. How?" Erik yelled.

Christine sighed, the spell of faux-peace broken. She could sense the vengeful Phantom side of her lover emerging. _'Should I try to calm him down, or should I just let him rant until he calms down on his own?'_ she wondered. Erik continued to pace and scowl. _'He is not breaking anything; let's just let him rant for a while.'_

Erik finally stopped and looked at Christine. "Well? I'm waiting for your answer, _dear._ "

Christine rose to her feet and faced him. Framing his strong jaw with her small hands, she answered, "He's just a boy. His title has inflated his pride to the point where he thinks with his ego instead of his head. I'm most likely the first woman ever to refuse him; he'll pout for a day or two, and then he'll move on. As long as he stays away from my girls, I honestly don't give a damn what he does."

Erik snorted, throwing her hands away from his face. "Then, my dear, you have truly received an inaccurate and romanticized view of the nobility. They are not all honorable storybook knights and damsels; they plot, scheme, and betray their own mothers to get their hands on a bauble they fancy. You refused him; he'll think you are simply playing the coquettish prima donna, that you are actually _interested_ in _him,_ but that you must deny him in public to preserve your reputation. He'll stop at nothing to have you for his own my dear. And while I cannot blame him for wanting you, he will not do the honorable thing and walk away when you tell him no. That is simply the ugly truth of the situation." He stated drily.

Christine stared into the fire for a few long moments, arms crossed. 'How could I get him to stop wanting me? How? He called me beautiful…' Then her thoughts stopped dead. "Erik?" she began quietly.

He turned slowly to face his precious Angel. God, how had he been so lucky as to have claimed this unearthly creature's heart as his own? Even with the unfortunate disfiguration, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. No, in the world! Her skin gleamed a pale alabaster, illuminating her deep blue eyes that saw through his soul in one single glance. Her normally dark chestnut curls stretched down to her hips, the flickering firelight turning the silky locks a deep red, framing the delicate features of her perfect face. His heart lurched at the sight of her, and for a moment he forgot why he was angry, why he was pacing, forgot everything but her. But only for a moment.

"Yes? Do you have a suggestion, Christine?"

Christine swallowed. Dear god, this was one of the hardest things she had ever had to say! "What-what if I showed him my face?" That was as far as she got before her lover roared.

"WHAT? Christine, cheri, do you hear yourself? Show him your face? Your face is the reason you became The Siren! You cannot show him your face, I forbid it!"

"You forbid it?" Christine yelled back, hot, white anger rising in her heart. "You have no right to forbid me to do anything! No grounds legally, either! I'm twenty years old, you are no longer my guardian. You cannot forbid me as your ward. And we are not married, so you cannot forbid me as my husband, Erik! I am allowed to do as I please!"

"You belong _to me,_ Christine! Me! And I'll be damned if I allow my lover, who I have devoted my life to protecting, to expose herself in such a disgraceful manner to that egoistical fop!"

"You make it sound as if I'm going to strip down to my pantalets and let him take his pleasure! I just want him to leave me alone, and if I show him my face he will no longer want me! He will move on to some pretty tart who will hang on his every word and giggle at his horrible, tasteless jokes and look at him as if he was God's gift to women. Why can you not see that?" The Siren cried.

She then realized that her Phantom was no longer arguing with her. In fact, he wasn't even looking at her anymore. He stared blankly ahead, not truly seeing anything.

Erik could not hear, could not think, could not see anything except the horrible picture his Christine had suggested. To have anyone else, any man but _himself_ look upon her achingly lovely form-no, the thought was too terrible to bear. Seeing what lay beyond the masks was deeply intimate for both of them, the ultimate sign of trust: to let their partner see their greatest imperfection, their greatest flaw-and _know_ that their partner would not scream, would not run. And she was about to show herself to another man? So that he would _go away?_ No, that would surely destroy her, to have anyone, even a fop she knew was idiotic and worthless, look upon her face and scream. God, it might ruin any chance she had to pursue her dreams of the stage! No, she couldn't! He wouldn't let her!

"Erik? Darling, are you all right?" Christine asked hesitantly. His blank, unseeing silence scared her more than his roars of rage ever could.

He turned to her slowly, and the damaged vulnerability in his eyes made her heart clench, the tears rolling down his face breaking it in two. "Christine…" he gasped hoarsely. "Forgive me, please. This is the night of your debut, we should be celebrating, not fighting, especially not over a man who isn't worth the oil he puts in his hair. Please, Christine, say you will forgive me and I will be your willing slave." With that, he collapsed to his knees on the rug, bowing before her like a servant would before a queen.

The tears rolled freely down Christine's face, as she looked at her love kneeling at her feet. She sat in front of him and pulled his head into her lap. He sobbed uncontrollably, and she simply held him, running her fingers through his hair, rocking back and forth as he had done when she was a child. She had had nightmares for a long time after she became his ward. Almost every night for a year she would wake him up with her screams, and he would hold her until she calmed down, then sing her to sleep.

As Erik came back to himself, he wiped the tears from his face and sat up to look at her.

"Christine…please. Do not do this. Do not degrade yourself in front of that fop. We will find another way to deal with him, one that will not require you to expose yourself in such a manner. Promise me, please Christine!" He begged her.

The tears streamed down her face, her heart slowly breaking again with the knowledge that she would have to break her promise. "I promise, Erik. I will not speak of it again. Come, it's late; let's go to bed."

Later, as they lay entwined in Erik's bed, Christine laid her head on the bare chest of her sleeping lover and wept for the peace they were about to lose. It would be a long time before they reclaimed it again, if they ever did.

At the same time, several miles from the Opera Populaire, the Vicomte paced in his study.

' _Who is that woman?'_ He wondered. _'Why does she wear a mask? How could she reject me? Me! The Vicomte de Chagny! Where did she go? What-or who-hit me? Will she come back?'_

Thoughts raced through his head for hours as he paced. Finally he stopped, and stared out the window, one of a procession of glasses of whiskey held in his hand. With the help of the alcohol, a demented plan began to take shape in his twisted mind.

' _Yes…it's perfect. Now I just need to convince those bumbling managers of it's necessity.'_

He sat down and wrote his letter. When he finished and went to bed, it was early morning. The beginning of his plot lay innocuously on his desk, and as he lay in his bed, he thought, _'Soon, my mysterious masked singer. Soon, you will be mine…forever.'_

 **A/N: Hi everyone! I hope you enjoyed the first two chapters of The Phantom and The Siren. I'll be uploading new chapters as often as I can, but once school starts again for the New Year, they'll be less often. Reviews are always welcome, but flaming of my phic or other reviewers will not be tolerated. Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it, and Happy Holidays to those who don't!**


	3. Revelations and Regret

**A/N: I realized I never put a disclaimer on this. My bad! I, sadly, do not own anything relating to the Phantom of the Opera. All rights belong to the late Gaston Leroux and Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber.**

The next day dawned brightly, and the inhabitants of the Populaire stirred as the sun rose. The noises, smell, and hustle of life and work filled the enormous structure as people woke and went about their morning routines. But deep below the opera house, the inhabitants of the caverns refused to stir and face the day, afraid of facing their demons and resuming the argument that had exhausted them last night.

Finally, Christine sighed and rolled away from Erik. ' _Lying in bed is not going to solve anything, no matter how much I wish it would._ ' She thought. Erik continued to lie in bed, much to Christine's amusement. Deciding to have a little fun with her lover to break the tension that currently hung over their home of stone, she filled a small bucket with the freezing water of the lake. Sneaking up to the bed on the silent feet her phantom had taught her to use at a young age, she dumped the cold water over the unmasked face of her love.

He sprang to his feet, cursing the cold. "Do you think this is funny, Mon amour?" he glared dangerously at Christine.

"Why, monsieur le fantome, indeed I do. You are rather impossible to wake in the mornings, you know. The water is the only way I know of to wake you up- and keep you awake." She smiled guilelessly.

Erik stalked away and continued to glare. The Siren rolled her eyes and began to dress. When she emerged from the bedchamber and cleared her throat to gain Erik's attention, his coffee caught in his throat and he chocked for a moment. His eyes darkened, and Christine smirked to see his stance suddenly shift.

' _God, now I know why society makes women hide themselves under so many layers. If all women dressed like this, civilization would collapse.'_ Erik thought. With good reason: Christine was dressed in a pair of tight black breeches, a white laced-up shirt, and a let of black leather boots that clung to her calves and made her _stride_ in that way he found so irresistible. _'She chose her name well.'_

As the cavern residents continued their morning routine, up above, the Girys were preparing for their day as well.

"Maman?" Meg asked. "Who was the girl who sang last night? She seemed…familiar, somehow."

Madame Giry froze. "Familiar? What do you mean, Cheri? Familiar how?"

"Like I've met her before. Maman, who is she?" Meg asked again.

Madame sighed. "Cheri, you might want to sit down for this. It's a very long story. You mustn't tell anyone, is that clear?"

Meg nodded and sat on her bed facing her mother.

"The woman in the mask…her name is Christine. I don't know if she's taken her father's last name or not. She's lived here almost her whole life. I doubt she remembers anything else. As far as she's concerned, Erik has always been her guardian."

"Maman, this isn't helping much. Who's Erik? Why do you know all this? How?"

Madame sighed. "You've heard of Gustave Daae, yes? The great Swedish violinist? He performed here a long time ago with the orchestra for about five months. During that time…I fell pregnant." With his child, the silence seemed to say.

Meg cut her off. "Wait, are you telling me that my father was Gustave Daae? Not Claude Giry?"

"No, meg. Your father was Claude Giry. But Christine's father was Gustave Daae. His only child."

"I'm confused. Did you fall pregnant with me?"

"No. With Christine. Gustave and I were lovers, and I loved him with a deep passion. When I told him I was with child, he was thrilled. He begged me to marry him, and rewrote his will. He left everything to Christine, and the money was put into a trust fund under my care until she came of age. He was very sick, you see, and knew that he wouldn't live to see his child. He died just a week before Christine was born. When she was six months old, I met your father. I came to love him, and we married. He knew the truth about Christine, but I didn't tell him about the will, or the fund. You were born a year into our marriage, and when we announced your birth, Gustave's solicitor came to see me. Claude listened in, and found out about everything. He was mad that I didn't tell him everything, but he told me that he would stay with us. He wasn't fond of Christine; never cruel, but it was obvious that he disliked having to raise another man's daughter. He came to accept her, though. But one night, when you were three, and she was five, a fire started in the house. Claude woke me up, grabbed you, and ran outside. I tried to get to Christine, but the flames were too high. When I finally escaped with her, her face was badly burned, and permanently disfigured. To keep her safe from the cruel world, I sent her to live elsewhere, with a man. The only man in the world I trusted to be her guardian." Madame admitted wearily.

Meg blinked, shocked. "But then, why did you never tell me about her?"

"I didn't want to burden you, Cheri. And I didn't want you to get jealous. "

"So, my half sister Christine…is she the Siren, maman? And this Erik you mentioned, where does he come in?"

"Yes, Christine is the Siren. Erik is the Phantom. I gave Christine up to his guardianship when she was burned. He raised her, and apparently taught her all he knew. He's also given her some rather unladylike habits. Teaching her to fight, and climb, and letting her run around in boots and breeches?" Madame muttered.

"Wait, so can I run around in pants like she does, maman?" the younger Giry questioned innocently.

Madame shot a disapproving glare at Meg. "Absolutely not, child! Just because Erik lets Christine run about like a heathen and act like a wild thing does not mean that you may act anything less than the lady I raised you to be. Is that clear, Marguerite Elizabeth Giry?"

"yes, maman." Meg giggled, glad to have her normal, strict mother back.

Later that morning, the Vicomte barged into the marbled foyer of the opera house, yelling for the managers. They appeared at the top of the staircase, blinking like a pair of startled owls.

"Yes, Vicomte, what is it?" the shorter-Firman? Lefevre? -asked tentatively.

"I received a pair of rather alarming pair of notes late last night. They were delivered to my door, and the messenger had no idea as to who the sender was." The Vicomte proclaimed.

The managers looked at each other, and then back at their patron. "Well, what did it say?" the taller one-Poligny? -asked.

The Vicomte cleared his throat and read, " _the performance last night was a rousing success, messieurs. Our lovely masked Prima Donna enjoyed a much better reaction from the crowd last night than Carlotta ever did. I would suggest replacing Carlotta with her immediately._

 _PtO"_

"Monsieur, you said this was alarming. I, for one, do not see anything wrong with the words of this message." The shorter one-Lefevre, he decided-stated.

"This was just the first one, monsieur. The second one is far worse." He assured. He reached into his pocket and produced an envelope with a seal identical to the letter they'd received yesterday. "It reads, messieurs, as follows: _Monsieur le Vicomte, you are not wanted at our theatre. Continue to be patron if you must, but stay away. You know nothing of the arts or music; the opera is for true connoisseurs only. We remain, monsieur, your obedient servants,_

 _PtO, StO"_

The managers stared at him, stunned. Finally, Poligny broke the silence.

"Well, monsieur, as unsettling as these notes are, we cannot actually _**do**_ anything unless we have proof that one of them did something illegal." He stated apologetically.

"I am aware of that, Monsieur Poligny. But just yesterday, a tapestry fell on La Carlotta, and when I approached the girl who sang last night, someone-or something-punched me in the jaw and knocked me out. I found a threatening note when I woke up, similar to the one I just read to you. Messieurs, please, for the safety of everyone in this opera house, we must do something!" the Vicomte pleaded.

"Very well, monsieur le Vicomte. We will call in the gendarmes. But they cannot interfere with rehearsals. Th-" Andre was cut off by the abrupt entrance of Carlotta, Piangi, and their entourage.

"What is the meaning of this?" Carlotta shrieked, holding aloft a copy of the news. "You spineless prawns cannot replace me with this little upstart who won't even show her face in public. Does anyone even know her name?" she yelled, glaring at the shocked men. Behind her, Piangi simply stood and glowered as his mistress screamed her displeasure. "Well? Answer me! Who is she?"

"She is the Siren, signora. One of the ghosts who haunt this theatre. Surely you've heard of them?" Madame Giry asked quietly, making her presence known.

"Oh, yes, the _ghosts._ And, pray tell, _Madame,_ just how do you _know_ about these so-called _ghosts_?" Carlotta sneered. "You are always the one who receives the notes, always the one who is warning us all not to displease them, and yet when asked about these phantasms, you clam up, and warn us all that ' _prudent silence is wise_.' Why? What are you hiding, Madame?" Carlotta spat.

Madame sighed. "Signora, I know nothing more than anyone else. I warn you all against angering them because I've seen what they're capable of. Except for possibly Messieur Reyer, I have been here the longest, and I've seen their past _accidents._ I have no connection to them; I have no idea why they choose me to handle their notes. As to why I don't talk about them, Signora, the reason is simple: I detest idle gossip. If you wish to hear stories about the ghosts, talk to Joseph Buquet; he would be more than willing to for another person to shove his stories on." Madame Giry said disdainfully.

"This is unimportant. Signora-" Firman started.

"Don't give me any of that! You cannot appease me so easily! You replace me with the first half-decent singer that comes along as soon as I leave? How dare you! I have been the star here for the past five years! If I am not properly appreciated here, perhaps I should just go back to Italy, where I _am_ appreciated. I have been the one who brought in the crowds all this time! Not her! And not these stupid ghosts!" she screamed.

"And we are forever grateful, signora. No one wants you to leave. The young mademoiselle had a very nice voice, to be sure, but we don't even know her name!" Andre stated cheerfully.

"Besides which, she has not earned the right to be Prima Donna. You are still the star, signora, and will be until you choose to step down and retire. Now, if you would accompany us, you need to be fitted for your costume." Firman said calmly.

Carlotta, Piangi, and their companions walked away with the managers, Carlotta grumbling all the while, leaving Madame Giry alone with the Vicomte. He eyed her suspiciously.

"Madame, I get the feeling that you know rather more than you are letting on. Tell me: what do you hide? And don't lie to me, Madame. I have the power to see you fired-and what then would happen to that lovely daughter of yours, hmm?" The Vicomte asked in honeyed tones.

"Monsieur, please, I told you, I know no more than anyone else. I am simply observant." Madame protested.

The Vicomte descended the stairs slowly, giving Madame Giry the impression of a wild cat stalking its prey. He touched her chin with two fingers and brought her face up to see her eyes.

"Then, Madame, in your _opinion,_ are these… _ghosts_ dangerous?"

"In my opinion, Monsieur le Vicomte, they are not."

"And…in your _experience_? Are they dangerous?"

"In my experience, monsieur? They…are very different. The Siren does not usually take an active interest in the day-to-day running of the theatre. She is the more benign of the two, but she is still dangerous if provoked, or if someone tries to harm one of the ballet or chorus girls."

"And the other one?"

"The Phantom? He is…unpredictable. He is a genius, monsieur. They both are, but he has a truly violent temper, especially if his orders are disobeyed." Madame Giry told him, her eyes misty and far away.

The Vicomte didn't respond. He simply stared as Madame Giry drifted back to when she was not "Madame", to when she was simply "Antoinette". She snapped out of it suddenly, and nodded at the Vicomte.

"Now, if you will excuse me, I have rehearsals to attend to. Good day, Monsieur le Vicomte."

As she walked away, she felt the ever-present gaze of the Phantom come to rest on her. She ignored it, for now; her girls needed to be tended to more than his temper did. She prayed he would understand.

Later that afternoon, as the Vicomte strolled through the empty corridors, he felt the unnerving sensation of eyes upon him. He turned, and saw no one. No one answered his calls.

"Monsieur?" a small voice hailed him. He turned to see the object of his obsession standing in the nearest doorway.

"Good day, mademoiselle. What can I _**do**_ for you?" he purred.

Christine beckoned him closer. "I must show you something, monsieur. It's very important." She whispered quickly.

"Oh? I would be very pleased to see _anything_ you wish to show me, my dear lady. Do go ahead." He drawled as he stepped closer.

Christine swallowed hard. "Do not scream, monsieur. I do not wish to attract unwanted attention." She warned.

Slowly, oh-so-very slowly, she reached for her mask and pulled it away.

As the mask came off, the Vicomte's eyes widened. What lay under the mask…was a twisted, red, scarred mess. The left side of her face didn't look like the beatific vision of the right. It resembled nothing more than a wax doll left in the sun. Her cheek looked rough and pitted. Her forehead and nose seemed to have simply…melted. Her cheekbone was visible in some places as well, and the side of her mouth was pulled downward, making her smile lopsided.

The Vicomte backed up a step, took another look, and fled. He didn't see, however, as he ran past the unknown voyeur.

Christine replaced her mask, and turned to go with an unexpectedly heavy heart. She heard light, quick footsteps approach, and then a hand was laid on her shoulder. She turned to fend off the unwanted personage, and came face-to-face with the visage of Meg Giry.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to be Christine?" she asked politely.

"Oui…how do you know my name?" Christine asked in confusion.

"I'm Meg Giry. I think that we need to talk privately for a while… 

A **/N: Hi! It's me again. I wanted to let all of my readers know that I will probably not have a chance to update again for a while. School is keeping me really busy, and I have very little free time to write, type, and edit. Please leave a review, it really makes my day, and feel free to PM me with any questions you may have. I promise I'll update as soon and as often as I can.**


	4. The Wrath of a Woman Decieved

Erik stalked through the secret passages behind the walls of the opera house, furious. ' _How dare she! She has never betrayed me before! Why would she do so now?_ _ **You've become Christine's lover; she doesn't approve.**_ _It's none of her business. If Christine wants me as her lover, that's her choice._ _ **Either way, her mother has betrayed you. Traitors must be punished, mustn't they?**_ _I can't harm her mother! Christine would hate me forever!_ _ **Your bond with her is stronger than any miniscule ties of blood. Besides, Christine is unaware that Madame is her mother. As far as she's concerned, we're her only family.**_ _I would have told her eventually. When the time was right._ _ **But who says she ever has to know? She's happy as she is right now. No need to upset the order of her world.**_ _Yes…but what do I do about her mother?_ _ **It's a theatre. Accidents happen…sometimes…fatal ones.**_ _I can't kill her! She's the one who saved me; I'm in her debt._ _ **And you're the one who raised her daughter for her when she was disfigured. She's the one in your debt.**_ _I can't harm Antoinette. She's the first friend I ever had, no matter what she's done._ _ **But her betrayal-**_ _will be addressed next time I speak to her. But I will not harm her.'_ The internal argument concluded, Erik continued on to rehearsal. Meanwhile, unknown to him, his Siren was learning her true heritage.

* * *

"Mademoiselle Giry, where are you taking me? How do you know my name?" Christine asked as she followed Meg down the hallway. Meg kept leading her deeper and deeper into the opera house. As they walked, Meg turned to Christine and said,

"There are things you don't know that you should. I can explain, but you need to trust me."

"Why should I trust you, Meg Giry? I've no reason to trust you, none at all. The only reason I'm following you now is out of sheer curiosity."

Meg giggled. "That's fine. Here; it's an old practice room. We don't use it anymore because the floor is too warped to dance on. We can talk safely in here."

The pair of young women quickly entered the room, and locked the door. Two pairs of identical blue eyes stared at each other out of porcelain faces with smooth, alabaster skin. Both felt a strange sense of familiarity with the other, though only one knew why.

Finally, Christine broke the silence. "You said you had something to discuss with me, Mademoiselle Giry?"

Meg started, then regained her composure. "Yes, I have something very important to tell you. It involves the both of us, and I beg you not to interrupt until I'm done, at which time I promise, I'll try to answer as many questions you may have as I can."

Christine nodded. Meg took a deep breath and started. "I don't really know where to begin with this, so I'm just going to start from the beginning. When I was a little girl, a fire started in our apartment, and my papa became very sick and died soon afterwards. I always felt like something was missing after the fire, and last night, when you sang, I felt…a connection to you, like I'd known you all my life. Oh, I'm not making any sense, am I? Anyway, my point is this: you're my elder half sister. I don't know what surname you use now, or even if you use one at all, but your real name is Christine Daae. Your father was Gustave Daae, the famous violinist. He and my-our-mother were lovers twenty years ago. He died just before you were born, and he left you everything." Meg said in a rush.

Christine sat, and just blinked for a moment. "Alright…so where do you enter the story?"

"Maman married my father about a year later, and I was born a year after that. My father was Claude Giry, one of the stage hands."

"So you know…how it came to pass that I must wear a mask?" Christine asked hesitantly.

Meg nodded gently. "Yes, Maman told me you were burned in the fire. She said she couldn't get you out in time, and you got burnt. So she gave you up to protect you. You-you live with the Phantom, yes? You're the Siren?" Meg asked.

Christine smiled and nodded. "Yes, Erik and I are the Ghosts of this theatre. But please-you mustn't tell our names to another living soul. Names have too much power to be bandied about, especially ours. Please, swear it, Meg, swear it!" Christine begged.

"I swear on my life-"

"No, not on that. You must swear it on the one thing that is nearest and dearest to your heart, that you would rather die than give up."

"Very well. I swear…I swear it on my dancing career." She vowed.

Christine smiled, and kissed her sister's cheek for the first time. "Thank you, Meg. Thank you."

* * *

The Vicomte de Chagny reeled back from the other side of the locked door. ' _The masked girl-Christine Daae-is an heiress? I wonder how much she stands to inherit? I doubt it's anything more than 3,000 francs, if that. Violinists don't earn much.'_

Hearing the two ladies approach, the Vicomte turned and ran down the corridor in the opposite direction of the sisters, who were completely unaware of his departing presence. ' _Well, this certainly is an interesting twist. My plans may call for a slight change…'_

* * *

Christine wandered through the abandoned section of the opera house, lost in her thoughts. She had already been there for several hours, simply thinking. Thinking of the family she never knew, her mother, her half-sister. And of her lover. ' _Why did Erik never tell me? He must have known, he was the one who raised me. Madame Giry gave me up to him when I was burned. Why would he let me believe that I was a street orphan all these years? He promised he'd never lie to me…never hide from me. He…he broke his promise!'_ She thought despairingly. She continued to pace for another hour, before her anger had abated to a level safe enough to confront Erik. She made her way down to the lair, and he found her staring into the fire, arms crossed.

He simply stood and stared at her silently for a moment, admiring the sheer loveliness of her form. Her dark chestnut curls reached her hips, her alabaster skin seeming to glow in the flickering light of the fire. Her legs, encased in the tight sheath of her breeches, were spread slightly, giving her posture an edge of defiance.

His heart caved in at the sight of her, and he felt himself fall in love with her all over again.

She turned to face him, and her eyes darkened. "How long have you been lying to me?" she questioned calmly. Erik knew he'd have to tread lightly, in fear of her anger.

"Christine, what are you talking about? I've never lied to you, I swear."

"You swear? Then why did you never tell me that Madame Giry is my mother? That I have a half sister that I never knew about? That I had a father who loved me! Why, Erik? You promised me that you'd never lie to me! That you'd never hide from me! What else haven't you told me, hmm? What else are you hiding!" Christine screamed at him, white-hot rage rising within her.

Erik took a step back in shock. "How-how did you find out about that? Who told you?" he asked her, stepping forward and grabbing her arms just below her shoulders.

Shaking him off, she shot back, "Meg told me. The half sister, who was unknown to me until five hours ago, told me what you did not! And don't you dare try to turn this back on me-you're the one who's been lying! You're the one who broke his promise!"

Erik couldn't do anything. He could only stare as the woman who made up the center of his world screamed at him, the fury and pain contained in her eyes ripping a gaping hole in his black excuse for a heart.

"Christine-please. Don't scream, you-you'll damage your voice." He offered wanly.

She turned to face him once again. "Is that all you can say? _Is that all you care about?_ My _**voice?**_ Then I can assure you, monsieur, that I shall take excellent care of it, to the exclusion of all else. My body will waste away with neglect, until it resembles nothing so much as a skeleton. I shall die for neglect of my body, and yet, at the funeral held for my wasted, withered corpse, the mother _I never knew I had_ will speak and say 'her voice was perfection itself until the very end.' Why, Erik? _Why?_ " She pleaded, suddenly seeming to collapse in on herself in despair.

Erik took a single look into her haunted blue eyes, now the color of an ocean storm, and gave in to her pleas. He couldn't possibly do anymore damage than had already been done. "I intended to tell you someday. My original plan was to tell you on your eighteenth birthday-" He started.

"Then why didn't you? My god, Erik, I'm twenty. It's two years later, in case you haven't noticed." She cut him off.

"I was going to tell you, but then the night before your birthday, we had that talk, and you said you couldn't ever imagine needing anything else in the world except this, and me. You were happy, Christine, and I didn't have the heart to take away that happiness." He admitted softly.

Christine gasped out a sob, and Erik saw her eyes acquire a sheen of tears. He fell to his knees, and held his hands out to her in a gesture of supplication. "Please, Christine, stay. Stay with me." The Phantom begged. "I will do anything you require of me to make this right, just please, don't go. You are all that is good in my world, the one star in my night sky, and without you everything is black and cold." Tears streamed down his masked face, pain filling his soul.

A similar lance of pain arced through Christine's heart, and she softened marginally. "I-I need time to thin about all of this. I won't leave, Erik, not right now, but I need to be alone." She said softly.

"How long?"

"I don't know. But I think I should sleep in my old room for awhile."

"What? Christine, I-"

"No, Erik. I need to be alone. Goodnight." She murmured softly, walking silently to her old room.

Erik stared after her, then stumbled into his room, shaking with sobs. ' _What have I done?_ '


	5. Airing the Past

**A/N: Hi everyone! I'm sorry I haven't updated in over a month, school was keeping me super busy. I've also received a couple of questions as to which version my characters are. My characters, unless I specifically state otherwise, will always be the 2004 movie version. However, in this story, all 3 Giry ladies (Madame/Antoinette, Christine, and Meg) all have blue eyes. I know I said in one chapter that Christine had brown eyes, that was my bad. Also, Christine's personality is based off of my own, so she's much stronger physically and mentally then she is in any official version. This chapter is more drama with some sweet moments, I promise there will be some fluff in the next one. Also, this story is rated T, and I intend to keep it that way. I will not be writing a smut scene, but there will be romance, kissing and stuff. If you want smut, find another phic. Now, on with the show!**

Erik tossed and turned for hours alone that night. ' _How the hell did this happen? Why did Antoinette tell Meg? She knows that girl can't keep a secret to save her life! It was not her business to tell Christine, it was_ _ **–yours? Antoinette is her mother. Is it really out of her rights to speak to either of her daughters?**_ _Antoinette gave Christine up to my care. She belongs to me!_ _ **How?**_ _I am her lover. I hold her heart._ _ **That may be, but consider what you have done. You have betrayed her trust, by not telling her the truth. Now that Meg had done so, what hold can you still reasonably claim to have over her?**_ _I-I._ _ **Exactly. The chains of love are strong, true. But those of trust are stronger, and you have broken them. You must wait, and see if she will choose to repair those ties, or to build a wall.**_ _How do I fix this?_ _ **It is not something that can be fixed like a faulty piece of scenery. You must earn her trust again, by doing exactly as she says. Leave her alone, let her think. Let her do whatever she needs to do.**_ _I-I will try.'_

Meanwhile, Christine also tossed and turned alone in her room. No matter what position she tried, she could not fall asleep. _'It's so hard to sleep without Erik-no! No, Christine, you have to be strong. Stay here. Alone. God, Erik, why? Why would you keep this from me? I trusted you. I love you! But I-I have a family now. I have a mother. And a sister! I have a little sister. Meg…my little golden sister. Do I love her? Do I love Madame Giry? No-wait. She'd mother now. Mother…what a strange word. I never knew…how can I love them? I don't even know them! I don't know anything about them. I don't know Meg's birthday, what their favorite colors are. I need to talk to Madame Giry. I need answers from her. Tomorrow.'_ She rolled to her side and finally fell into a fitful sleep.

When she awoke the next morning, Erik was already awake and moving about. She exited her room, and Erik whirled to face her. "Good morning, my love. Are-are you feeling alright?" he asked, obviously hoping for forgiveness.

Christine ignored him and grabbed her cloak off of her chair. "I'm going above."

Erik started. "Above? Why?"

Christine growled in annoyance. "Do I need a reason to go above? Do I require your permission now?"

"No, of course not! I never meant-"

"Never meant what? That a _reason_ was required for all of my actions? _You_ certainly didn't need one." She snapped. Erik stared at her in stunned silence, shocked by the venom her glare contained. She grabbed her white porcelain mask off of the table and affixed it to her face, the perfect right side now as impassive and unreadable as the mask itself. "I'll be back later." And with that, she turned and walked to the tunnel that led to the surface.

Erik simply stared after her retreating form, his heart sinking to his knees once again. _'Now see what you have done! You've only made it worse!'_ he berated himself.

Christine continued her climb to the surface. She pushed open the secret door to Madame Giry's office, and entered. Madame looked up from her tea and sighed. "I thought you would come. Meg told me what she had done." She set her tea down and stood, walking towards her eldest daughter. "Your sister really is a good girl, even if she has a tendency to act before she thinks and speak when she should not." She now stood in front of Christine, and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I understand you have questions. Sit, and I shall answer."

Christine sat in the proffered armchair, and began to ask the questions flying through her troubled mind. "Why did you give me up? Why didn't you ever come to see me? Why didn't you tell me? How did you meet my father? Wh-"

"Slow down, Cheri, or I'll miss one. I met your father twenty-one years ago when he came here to perform. I had just turned eighteen, and earned the rank of Prima Ballerina. We both happened to stay late onstage one night; I was having trouble with one of the steps in my solo. He played for me while I danced, and we continued to meet onstage at night for a while. We became lovers, and three months later, I informed him that I was with child. He was thrilled, and two days later he proposed. I accepted, of course, but I told him that I wanted to wait until after you were born, so that it did not appear that we were marrying to preserve my honor. He agreed, and we started planning the ceremony. Unfortunately, Gustave became very sick, and died a week before you were born. I was devastated, but I had you, and I blessed god the day you were born, you looked so much like him. Christine, he loved you the moment I told him I was pregnant. He left you everything he had, which you'll inherit when you turn twenty-one." She told Christine.

Christine nodded. "Why did you give me up?"

"The night the fire started, my husband, Claude, grabbed Meg and told me to run. I ran to your door, which was nearly blocked off by flames. You were screaming, so I ran through, picked you up, and got out as quickly as I could. However, my braid caught on fire, and it lit your blanket. You got burnt, and though the doctor did what he could, he couldn't fix your scar. I…made the decision to give you up to Erik's care because the world is cruel, cold, and judgmental to those who carry imperfections. You were safer with him than you would have been with me."

Christine considered this for a moment, then nodded. "I understand. But then, why didn't you ever come to see me? You live here, you would have had plenty of opportunities to do so."

Madame sighed. "Oh, Cheri, I wanted to. Please believe me when I say I wanted to. But the world thought you dead. If I had disappeared without explanation to visit you, eventually someone would have noticed. So I had to content myself with seeing you when you came above with Erik."

Christine choked at the name of her lover, tears threatening to fall. Closing her eyes to hold them back, she attempted to swallow her sob and be strong. Madame Giry, observing this, asked, "Christine? My dear, what is wrong? Tell me."

Christine looked into her mother's eyes, and for the first time, began to unburden herself to another female. _'I almost feel…normal.'_ She though. "Erik…he never told me that you were my mother. He never gave any hint that I had a family. I thought I was a street orphan for years! And the worst part is, he-he promised me that he would never lie to me, and never hide anything from me. A-and then, then he told me that he was going to tell me when I turned eighteen. But I'm twenty, and I'm only finding out now!" she sobbed, her efforts at holding back her tears failing.

Madame Giry opened her arms, and her eldest fell into them, crying. Madame's heart, which beat warm and kind under her tough exterior, broke a little bit more with each tear her daughter shed. ' _Oh, sweetheart. This is all my fault. I should have made him tell you earlier.'_ She gathered Christine tighter, and held her until the tears ceased to come. Rubbing her hand up and down Christine's spine, Madame said, "Christine, darling, I'm going to tell you something very important, and I want you to listen to me, really listen. Alright?" Christine nodded against her shoulder, the cold porcelain of her mask catching on the collar of her mother's gown. "Good. Now, Christine, I rescued Erik from a gypsy traveling carnival. I raised him from the time he was seven years old. He's always been like a little brother to me. I've seen him at his worst, my dear, when he had no hope or happiness in his eyes-only despair. You-you've truly made a difference in him, Christine. I've never before seen him with such joy in his eyes, and with a smile always on his face. He was always so grim, before. He loves you, my dear, completely. His entire world revolves around you and your happiness. You could break him with a single word, and with a smile, you could easily enslave him. It's obvious." She said.

Christine sat back. She seemed to retreat inward for a short while, before coming back to herself. She nodded. "I know, Madame. But he hid this from me for so long, how am I ever supposed to trust him? Or forgive him? And how am I supposed to go on living with him, when every time I look at him, I am bombarded with all of the memories of what we have shared? Madame, the way he looked at me this morning, seeing the hope for forgiveness on his face, watching it die…it does not matter what he has done, I cannot bear to always see him like that. What am I supposed to do?" she gasped, tears once again clouding her face.

Madame Giry pursed her lips in sympathy for her daughter's plight. _'The world is a romantic and tragic place for a twenty-year-old girl, but she would be like this regardless of her age, considering the circumstances.'_ She thought. "Cheri…would you like to come and stay here with us for a while? So you can have some space to think?" she asked.

Christine looked up in shock. "Here…you mean in the opera house? In the dormitories?"

"Oui. Meg's roommate, Louisa, just moved away to Calais with her new husband. You can live there, for as long as you need to. Meg will be thrilled, and I would not refuse a chance to speak with you further either, Cheri."

Christine broke out into an enormous smile. "Oh, that would be wonderful, Madame, thank you so much!"

Madame smiled, her heartache easing just a bit to see her curly-haired angelic daughter smile. _'Oh, Gustave, if only you were here. She looks so much like you when she smiles. Oh, my darling love, look down on us, on our daughter. She is so beautiful, darling.'_ She clapped her hands. "Then it is settled. You must-Meg!" Madame was cut off by the exuberant entrance of her golden-haired younger child.

"Good morning, Maman-Christine! I'm sorry, I didn't know you were in here. I do hope I'm not interrupting anything terribly important." She blurted out all in a rush.

Christine smiled at the golden whirlwind that was her little sister. "Good morning, Meg, what has you so obviously in a good mood?" she teased.

Meg smiled impishly. "What? Can't a girl be happy to see her family?" she shot back playfully.

"Touché. Now, if you'll excuse me for a bit, I have to go collect some things. I will be back up within an hour." She said to Madame Giry.

"What's going on? Why are you fetching your things?" Meg asked, wide-eyed curiosity apparent on her china-doll face.

"Christine is going to be staying in you room with you for a while, Meg." Madame Giry explained.

"Fun! Christine, I'll run and get your bed ready, and then I will meet you back here in an hour to help you move your things into our room, alright? Bye?" Meg called, not waiting for a response.

Christine smiled and shook her head. She bid her mother goodbye, and made her way through the unlit stone passageways down to the lair. _'Thank god he's not here.'_ She though, seeing that the home of stone was currently empty but for her and the mist. Entering the room she once shared with Erik, she began packing her clothes into a small bag. As her pale fingers brushed over the fabric, she heard a rustle, and several sheets of paper slipped out of the wardrobe. She quickly stuffed them into the bottom of her bag, and piled a few more sets of clothing on top of them. With that, she closed her bag and made her way to the surface.

Xxx

The secret door to Madame Giry's office flew open and slammed into the wall. Madame Giry sighed, and slowly turned to meet the stormy grey-green eyes of the Phantom of the Opera. And this _was_ the Phantom-there was no sign of Erik, the sweet, misunderstood boy she had rescued in her youth. He had learned long ago to hide himself beneath the mask of the Phantom, as he did now. But then-had she not also learned to hide Antoinette under the mask of Madame Giry? Her reverie was broken by three hoarse words.

"Where is she?"

Madame sighed again. "She needs her space, monsieur, and time to think things through."

"That is not an answer to my question."

"But it is the answer you are going to receive. Go, Erik. You cannot make her come back to you. It is her choice."

He tuned to go, and looked back at his longtime friend. "Antoinette…I'm sorry."

She nodded, her eyes full of sorrow. "As am I, Erik, but there is nothing either of us can do to change the past. But you have my blessing to be with my daughter. If she comes back to you, I suggest you don't waste the second chance. Bon nuit." 

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed my new chapter! I can't make any guarantees as to when the next one will be up, but I'm trying to update at least once a month. Please review, I guarantee that the next chapter will come faster if you do.**


	6. A New Face, A New Path

**A/N: Hi everyone! I'm so sorry I haven't updated in so long, life just got super busy. School's almost over, and I had like three projects all going on at the same time, so I've hardly had time to write, and on top of that, my muse abandoned me. But thankfully, it's back, so the next chapter is ready. A word of caution: I tried to write a lighthearted, fluffy chapter to offset all of the drama that's been in the story so far, I honestly did, I swear. However, it turned out to be not only my longest chapter yet, but also my darkest. If that sort of thing bothers you, skip once you get to the X's, down to the next line of them. Enjoy!**

Christine reclined on the small bed across the room from Meg's. Meg was nearly bouncing off of her bed in excitement at sharing her room with her newfound sister.

"So, what happens now?" Christine asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I've never shared a room with another girl before. Is there anything special we do?"

"Not today. No rehearsal, so most of the girls are either at church or the Bois-officially. I know that some of them go off to meet their gentleman friends; Lyssette especially. The men can't keep their eyes off of her, and she likes the attention, so she's got a _constant_ string of young dandies dancing attendance on her."

"And you? Do you have a young man to dance attendance on you?" Christine teased.

Meg flushed. "Ha! I wish! A few have expressed interest, but Maman and that cane of hers scared them off. She'll probably do the same with you now too." She added.

"Why's that?"

"Well, you are her daughter too. She's very strict with me about not being alone with a man until I'm married." She sighed dramatically. "Well, there's not a man _really_ worth looking at in the entire opera house, so it's not such a loss. That new patron isn't a bad-looking man, though. Can I play with your hair, Christine?"

The rapid change of subject startled the dark-haired beauty. "Play with it? What do you mean?" She asked warily.

"It's so long, I bet I could do just about anything with it. Most of the girls play with their roommate's hair, but Louisa would _never_ let me touch hers. So can I play with yours? Please please please please please?" Meg begged. Christine smiled and nodded.

"Alright. I've never had someone play with my hair before. Go ahead." Meg squealed in excitement, and pushed Christine to sit on a cushion she had thrown onto the floor, while she sat on the bed behind. She began to brush out the long, curly chocolate locks, and exclaimed, "Oh, Christine, your hair is so pretty! Haven't you ever cut it?"

Christine giggled. "No. Erik-" her voice cracked almost imperceptibly. "Erik told me if I didn't keep it brushed and neat, he was going to cut it all off while I slept. I chose to brush it, and I didn't let him touch it for _years._ "

Meg caught her sister's subtle, well-hidden unhappiness, and cursed herself for bringing about more pain. In an attempt to lighten the mood, she quipped, "Well, then I've got a lot of time to make up for. Can I put it up?"

"What? Oh, um, sure. Just be careful, please; it gets caught on just about everything." Laughing in agreement, Meg began to work. Christine sat silently as Meg's nimble fingers ran through her hair and began to weave it into a plait. As the sensation began to soothe her mind, they also lulled it into lowering her defenses. Memories of Erik brushing her hair for her before bed began to flood her mind, and her heart clenched. ' _"Oh, Christine, why would you want to cut it? It's so beautiful." "It's so hard to keep in line!" she laughed. He laughed in return, and strode over, taking the brush from her hand. Settling behind her on the bed, he pushed her hair aside and whispered into her ear, "Then, ma cheri, let me tame the wild beast." The sensation of his whispered breath on her neck sent shivers down her spine. "It doesn't stay in the braid, it's impossible to keep neat, and I have to spend at least twenty minutes untangling the snarls every time I comb it!" she complained. His rhythmic strokes stopped, and he leaned forward, burying his face in her locks. "It suits you. Your wild and stubborn spirit, so intractable. And yet, underneath, so soft and warm." He breathed, running his hands down her arms.'_

After a few minutes, Meg rose and stepped to the vanity to retrieve a comb. Wrapping Christine's thick braid around her forehead, she tucked the end back under and secured it with the comb.

"There! All finished!" she exclaimed. "Now it's just like Maman does it."

Christine, startled out of her thoughts by Meg's shout, stood up and looked in the vanity mirror. "It's very nice, Meg, although it looks a bit strange with me dressed as a man."

Meg pursed her lips and considered. It _did_ look very nice on Christine, but seeing a woman's hairstyle atop men's clothes took a bit of getting used to. She snapped her fingers. "Then you'll just have to dress as a woman. Here," she said, rushing to her wooden wardrobe, "you can wear one of my dresses while we go raid the costuming area."

Christine giggled at her enthusiasm, rolling her eyes as she accepted the small grey dress. However, when Meg pulled her out the door and down towards backstage, she couldn't help but admire the way her little sister made everything seem like a fairy tale.

Meg searched through the racks and made Christine try on dress after dress, until finally, they found the perfect one. A navy-blue velvet dress with silver seams, it was meant to be a costume for a queen in a recent opera. However, Carlotta had refused to wear it, saying it was too plain to be worn by a queen, and that it would clash violently with the color of her hair. However, on Christine, it appeared to be made of the night sky, with starlight woven into the threads holding together a fabric woven from twilight. The glossy white mask gave her an air of debonair mystery, only increasing her appeal. It fit her like a glove, and with the addition of a pair of dark gloves that went to the middle of her upper arms, she truly appeared to be a creature of myth and legend.

Christine looked into the mirror and gasped. She had never considered herself particularly beautiful, despite what Erik had told her for years, but now…now, she began to see what he saw. She bent forward slightly, a single tear running down her pale face.

"Christine? Are you alright?" Meg asked worriedly, stepping forward and laying a concerned hand on her shoulder.

Christine looked at her and smiled tearily. "Yes, Meg, of course. I'm fine. Come, let's go back to the room; we've got years of catching up to do."

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Madame Giry tossed and turned that night, plagued by nightmares that sprung from the guilts that haunted her mind like buzzing flies.

' _"Oh, Gustave, I love you." She murmured. "Antoinette, mon amour…" he purred, running one long hand down her toned thigh, eliciting from her sounds not unlike those he coaxed from his violin with those same talented fingers. The scene blurred, and suddenly she was dancing onstage, her long, thick waves gleaming in the bright stage lights, the color of burnished oak. "I've never seen anyone dance like that before. I didn't know any mortal could move with such grace." He told her, the stage now dark. "Oh, Gustave, you know I only dance well when you play for me." She teased. "And you know I only play well when you dance for me. Therefore, we are at an impasse, my darling. For you cannot dance unless I play for you, and I cannot play unless you dance for me." "In what way is this and impasse, love? It seems to me, that it makes us two halves made whole again." She contended. He pulled her close against his side. "It is an impasse, because once you start to dance, I find I lose all will to play, and all I wish to do is sweep you off the stage and make love to you, Antoinette. Thus, the impasse." Antoinette's cheeks blushed bright red, and she looked away. "Gustave! You mustn't say such things here, it's indecent! Someone could hear!" she giggled. "And why should I care, my_ _ **dear?**_ _" a deeper, darker voice asked. She whipped around, to see the face of Claude Giry leering back at her, his handsome features twisted in sardonic fury. She scrambled backwards and stood to her feet, attempting to hide the shaking of her knees. "Stay back, or I swear I'll kill you!" she threatened, desperate to halt his advance. "Ah, but what with? You are defenseless." He continued to approach, until she screamed, and the image wavered and disappeared. All was pitch-black and silent around her. Then, suddenly, a child's wail split the silence like a knife, the sound one of pure terror, twisting a hot blade of agony into Madame Giry's heart. "Christine! Hold on, cheri, I'm coming!" she cried, racing towards the sound. A wall of flames sprang to life in front of her, quickly surrounding the desperate woman in a wall of deadly heat. The child continued to scream, as her mother became more and more desperate to reach her. The flames surrounding Madame Giry rose higher and higher, the inferno sending out white-hot arrows of heat that burned and melted all in its path. "Christine!" Madame screamed, trying to reassure her daughter that she was there, even if she couldn't help her. "Maman?" a small voice asked behind her. She turned around slowly, fearing the sight that would meet her eyes. A tiny child, disheveled, her hair snarled, and her dress torn. Her dark curls, once lively, were burnt and ragged. But what was most damning of all was her face…her once-perfect face, almost resembling a china doll in its perfection, was now permanently scarred. Half was now burned and twisted, the thin veneer of perfection cracked. "Maman? Please, help me. My face hurts, and so do my hands. I'm scared, Maman. Why do they hurt?" she asked, her voice fading away. "Why?"_

Madame Giry sat bolt upright in bed, panting and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. "Christine…" she whispered, in a voice so filled with pain and guilt that it would break the most cynical and jaded of hearts. She lit a candle and prayed to God, "Please, Lord, let her be happy. I failed in my duty to protect her, so please, just let her be happy." She blew out the candle, and all was silent and dark once more.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

The next morning, Christine decided to pay a visit to the managers during rehearsal. Informing her sister of this earned her a loud, high-pitched squeal of enthusiasm.

"Oh, Christine, how exciting! Are you going to make them give you the Prima Donna role?" she asked excitedly. Christine smirked. "No, I won't _make_ them do anything. I shall simply…offer them my services. Once they find out who I am, they can't possibly refuse!" she declared. "Meg, will you help me? I don't think that showing up in trousers would present the right image for a Prima Donna. Can you dress me up like you did yesterday?" she pleaded.

Meg's eyes sparkled with mischief. "I'll do much better than that." She turned and pulled a small case from under her bed, setting it on her bed and opening it. "Maman doesn't know I have this, and she'd skin me alive if she found out, so you mustn't breathe a word of this to her." She informed Christine.

Christine peered curiously over Meg's shoulder. "What is it?" she asked.

"It's stage makeup. And not the heavy lead paint stuff they use for Faust or Il Muto, either. This is really nice. Louisa gave it to me when she left; I think it was a gift from her young man. She taught me how to use it, too." She told her, getting out the brushes and powder. "The way you're supposed to use it is to make your eyes look enormous, your lips red, and your face pale." She looked at her sister's face and pursed her lips. "But I don't think I'll need to powder your face much. Your complexion's already perfect. You'll be the envy of everyone here!" she exclaimed. "Sit down! I can't do this while you're standing, you're too tall." She pushed Christine into a chair and went to work. Christine, who she had very firmly told was not allowed to look into the mirror until she was done, sat quietly, thinking on the events of the past few days. Meg noticed this, and resolved to be as cheerful as possible, and give her sister reason to smile. _'Poor girl, I don't think she slept a wink. She's almost too pale, and she didn't look so tired when we first met.'_

"Done!" she exclaimed. Christine turned around to look in the vanity mirror, and stared at her reflection. She almost didn't recognize the woman looking back at her from the mirror. And as she took another glance at the mirror when she was dressed and coiffed as she had been the afternoon before, she thought to herself, _'Who is this? This isn't my reflection. That woman isn't me. She looks like me, moves like me, sings like me, but…she isn't me. Where did I go?'_

Half an hour later, after bidding her mother good morning, she stood alone in front of the manager's office. She drummed up her courage, knocked, and was permitted entrance.

"Good morning, gentlemen." She announced. Andre's narrow, mousy face paled.

"Y-you! What do you want? I'm warning you, stay back!" he threatened.

Christine smirked. "Monsieur, please. I sincerely mean you no harm. In fact, I've come to discuss business."

Andre started, and appeared to collect himself. "Oh, well, um, alright then. Firman! Would you come in here, please?" he called.

Firman entered. Christine sighed in relief; he appeared to be the more level-headed of the two managers, even if he had no head for the arts. He eyed her in surprise, but sat without a word.

"Gentlemen, I've come to offer my services to you as a singer." She stated.

Andre paled again. "Well, um, mademoiselle, we are…that is, we are flattered by your offer, however, we already have a Prima Donna." He said.

"Indeed you do, monsieur. However, I will remind you that were it not for me, you would have lost a great deal of money, because La Carlotta walked out on you."

"La Carlotta has proven herself more than capable of filling the theatre, mademoiselle. She is an experienced singer, and her name is well known. However, if you wish to sing, we would be more than happy to offer you a position in the chorus…" he trailed off at Christine's raised eyebrow.

"Actually, Andre, the girl is right. We got lucky, this time, but next time Carlotta walks out on a performance, what will we do? The blasted woman's got no understudy. Blasted divas and their egos." Firman muttered under his breath. "Mademoiselle…I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?" he questioned.

Christine smiled sweetly. "Christine, monsieur. Christine…Daae." The mask seemed almost to disappear under the light of her smile, which, though seemingly perfect and joyful, was in fact almost painted onto her face. As Meg and her mother had seen that morning, this queenly figure's smile was tinged with a deep, almost unbearable sadness, one that could only be caused by the severance of a most exquisite and unique love. It was quickly buried beneath a veil of false cheer, and hidden out of site.

"Well, mademoiselle Daae, it seems you have your spot, should you wish to accept it. I don't envy you the job of dealing with Carlotta, but you seem more than capable of dealing with her, should the need arise. Would you accept the position of understudy to the diva?" Firman asked.

Christine smiled again. "I'd be honored, monsieur. When should I begin to join the cast for rehearsals?" she asked.

Firman looked at Andre askance. "Best to wait until tomorrow, I think. That way we won't interrupt rehearsals."

Christine nodded and curtseyed to the men. She left, but just as she was about to open the door, a thought came to her, and she quickly turned around to face the managers. "Messieurs?" she asked quietly. "I'd like to keep my name private, for the time being, as I don't relish the idea of being made a spectacle of. May I choose a stage name, to preserve my privacy?" she requested.

Firman looked up at her and nodded. "Of course. And how shall we address you, Mademoiselle?"

Christine tilted her head and thought for a moment, then smiled. "As Rose, Monsieur. Rose DeNuit."

The managers nodded, and Christine exited again, only to secrete herself behind a hanging drape at the sight of the Vicomte de Chagny. Dressed in a lighter suit in deference to the hot French summer, he cut quite a dashing figure to those who preferred that particular type of men. _'And many who don't, too.'_ She mused to herself, walking away.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Raoul de Chagny was in a foul mood. He hadn't seen the masked lady, and had no desire to lock himself in a stuffy office with the two buffoonish managers to discuss business. He walked into the office and bid the men inside a gruff good morning.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, come in! We have very exciting news."

The Vicomte looked at Andre in disinterest. "And what news would that be, Monsieur Poligny?" he asked.

"We have just hired and understudy for La Carlotta! That masked girl who sang the other night waltzed in here easy as you please and offered to be the understudy! Isn't that wonderful?" he said.

The Vicomte suddenly sat up straight. "The masked woman? She was here? When?" he demanded.

Firman appeared startled. "Just a moment ago, Monsieur. She left just before you arrived. You must have seen her."

The Vicomte forced himself to relax. _'You cannot arouse their suspicion, you fool! Take your time. The masked maiden won't be going anywhere.'_ He nodded. "Well, at least now we have an understudy, although I rather pity the person who has to tell Carlotta. She doesn't seem to be the type to work with one." He muttered, having been forced just two days ago to kiss her hand and grovel before her.

The managers laughed in agreement.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Erik wandered the catwalks above the stage, gloomily hoping to catch at least a glimpse of Christine, if he couldn't actually speak to her in person. Dark circles ringed his eyes, bleary from two nights of fitful sleep. Rehearsals for Il Muto proceeded apace, until they broke for lunch. Then, Christine stepped onstage with Meg, the two of them the only ones still remaining. Erik's heart skipped a beat. A shining vision in dark blue and silver, she appeared to have suffered no ill effects from their nights apart. A stab of sudden pain tore through Erik's heart. _'Does she miss me at all? Does she even care? Of course not, don't be stupid, Erik. Why should she care anymore? After what you've done to her, she'd be perfectly justified if she never spoke to you again.'_ For indeed, Christine's eyes were clear and bright, and her face had not a mark or blemish that would indicate suffering on it. Had he been closer, he would have noticed two very important things that were missed: first, the cheerful falseness of her laugh and smile; the second, the pair of icy blue eyes that stared ominously at the two women from the shadows.

 **A/N: So I hope you enjoyed it! Please do take the time to review, it honestly makes my day and makes me feel like I'm not just writing to read my own words. (See what I did there? =) ) It doesn't have to be a full-blown analysis or anything, (although those are appreciated too) but just a couple words to tell me what you think is awesome. Peace!**


	7. Some Motherly Advice

**A/N: Hello! I know, I've been neglecting this story, I'm terrible. But I had received more requests to continue The Hidden Man than I did for this story, so I decided to concentrate on that for a while. I also received a rather rude flame for my first chapter; the person who left said flame pointed out several things they thought were plot holes or unrealistic, and then proceeded to tell me that they were uninterested in continuing to read the story because they were "disappointed" with my first chapter. My issue isn't so much that she (I'm assuming it was a she) disliked my story, it's that she read only the first chapter before judging it. So, my point is, that caused me to lose my inspiration for a while. But it's back, so, enjoy!**

The next morning, as rehearsals were about to start, Firman and Andre stood next to Christine, eager to introduce her to the cast, and Carlotta. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? Thank yo-Monsieur, please, this is important. Thank you." Andre said.

Firman rolled his eyes. "We are very pleased to introduce our new understudy to Signora Giudicelli, Mademoiselle Rose DeNuit. Mademoiselle?" he turned and motioned for her to step forward.

A shrill cry came from the back of the crowd. "What! What you mean, thees girl is my understudy? I will 'ave no understudy! I refuse to work weeth her!" Carlotta shrieked. "Either she goes, or I go! Choose!"

The managers went pale and started to sweat under the heat of the Diva's fury. Andre began to babble a response, when Christine cut him off. "Go then, Signora, if you wish. But if you do, I will take your place, and then where will you be?" she said.

Carlotta looked at her, shocked. " 'Ow dare you! You leetle brat, you don't have the ability to replace me! You are nothing but a leetle slip of a girl, practically nothing more than a ghost! 'Ow dare you come 'ere, speak to me zis way, and threaten to take my place!" she screamed.

Christine gave the Diva a dry look. "Perhaps they would prefer a woman, even a lightly-set one, as you say, to an overgrown toddler…with the singing ability of a babe." She smirked.

Carlotta turned on the managers. "Are you seemply going to stand there and let her speak to me in this disrespectful manner? You are the managers! Control her!"

"Like they control you, Signora? I am doing nothing wrong, you are the one who is throwing the tantrum. And as for being disrespectful, you have made life a living hell for those in this theatre for the past five years. I'm surprised you haven't been fired simply out of spite." Christine stated calmly.

The crowd of the cast pressed ever closer around the two women, eager to get a look at the woman who _finally_ was putting La Carlotta in her place. Some of the braver ballerinas began to move to stand behind Christine, in a show of support for the extraordinary newcomer.

Carlotta glared at the girls, furious that they would support this young upstart who would take her place. As if anyone could ever replace her! She was the one who had been keeping the theatre going for the past five years! She was the one who drew the crowds!

She snorted. "And I suppose thees is their pathetic attempt at trying to control me? It won't work. If I leave, thees theatre will go bankrupt within a month. I guarantee it!" she declared.

"Are you so sure of that, Signora? Now that I am here to take your place should you leave, doing so would not actually cause any problems for the theatre, especially should I become more popular than you. And considering that the quality of your voice was never that high to begin with, that is a very real possibility." Christine pointed out.

"Ha! Shows what you know, leetle toad! I have received nozzing but praise from the creetics for years! I am zee best seenger in Paris!" she proclaimed. "Zey love me! Zey come to see me, not some skinny chit wearing a mask. Iz zat your way of getting attention? What do you hide under there, leetle toad?"

The crowd went silent, all of them taken aback at the boldness of Carlotta's question. Then the whispers started, all of them now wondering-what _did_ the new singer hide beneath the mask?

"Do you think she's a criminal?"

"Maybe she's on the run."

"I bet there's nothing actually under there. It's just for the attention."

"Oh, please. It's just an eccentricity. You know how these stars are. Look at Carlotta, and all her pink! At least this Rose girl looks sensible." Came the voice of Meg Giry.

' _Bless you, Meg!_ ' Christine thought.

"I hardly think my mask is any concern of yours. And as for the critics…considering the spectacle you are making of yourself right now, Signora, they only did so to avoid you murdering them in their beds. Your voice _was_ decent…years ago. But obviously, you have neglected to take care of it, and in fact have damaged it with alcohol, cigarettes, and your temper tantrums. Tell us, Signora, how many times have you refused to sing and caused the opera to lose thousands of francs, not because you _wouldn't_ sing, but because you _couldn't_?" Christine asked.

The cast gasped and turned to stare at Carlotta's rapidly reddening face. " 'Ow, dare, you! You little chit, you don't know anything! You don't know anything about music, about singing! I have dedicated my life to my art-" she began, only to be cut off.

"If that were true, Signora, then we wouldn't be having this conversation right now." She turned to face Monsieur Reyer, and amusedly took in his pale, mouselike face, which currently wore an expression of shocked awe. "Monsieur, if you please, do you have a spare score I could look over? There are some parts of the opera that I'm not as familiar with." She requested sweetly, with no sign of the fierce woman she had been but a moment ago showing itself.

"Oh, um, of course, Mademoiselle. Here." He handed her the score. "If you would like, you may sit over there and review it while we rehearse." She nodded and thanked him. "Now, everyone, if you could please take your places for the first scene of Act one, we'll run it through from there. Signora, please, if you could take your place…" Reyer began to direct the rehearsal, and things proceeded apace for a time.

Christine sat in her chair backstage and watched, pretending to look over the score. She could feel the eyes of the ballet corps and the chorus on her, wondering how things would change, now that she had been added to the cast. _'Well, at least now I have something to do during the day, that will keep my mind off of-no, Christine, don't go there, don't think about him._ ' Too late, though, as the floodgates opened and she was inundated with memories of Erik-snapshots of the life and home she had shared with him before that fateful revelation. ' " _I was only trying to make you happy, Christine._ " ' His words echoed through her mind. She half-smiled tearfully. ' _Oh, Erik. Even if you did do the wrong thing, I can believe that. I don't think you have a thought that isn't about me, somehow.'_ She mused to herself. ' _But you kept the truth of my entire life hidden from me, and I don't know if I can forgive that. What other secrets have you been keeping from me? What else is nothing but a lie?_ '

 **Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

Erik watched her from above, as she fought with Carlotta and then reviewed the score. He watched as her eyes suddenly filled with tears and pain, and as she quickly collected herself. He continued to watch for a while, until the pain came to be too much, and he left.

The walk back down to the cavernous home he once shared with his beloved was empty and silent except for the echoes of his footsteps off the stone. Disembarking from the lavish gondola he had constructed when he had taken up permanent residence in the caves, he walked through the lair, removing his mask and wig and laying them upon his desk. As he turned away, his cloak caught on the feather pen in the inkwell and knocked it over. Silently righting it and cleaning the ink, he picked up the seal he had carved when Christine had decided to become the Siren. The skull's leering grin mocked his pain, its empty eye sockets staring all the same. The wave at the back curled around the skull, a singular drop resting on the carved jawbone. ' _A slip of the knife, and yet how ironic is it, that the skull should now cry as well?_ ' Erik mused silently to himself.

Entering his bedroom, he undressed and put away his clothes, when the pile of papers once again fell out of the wardrobe. Picking them up, he looked through and put them back. Shaking his head, he put them back and made a note to try to organize his papers better.

As he closed the door to the wardrobe, the reflection of his bed, the one he once shared with Christine, caught his eye. Turning around, he wondered if he would ever again hold her as they slept, ever again make love to her, and the fragile rein he held on the raging tempest of his emotions snapped.

"Why? Why, god? Why must you take everything that matters from me? Why must I be the one cursed to this living hell? What did I do to offend you? What did I do to deserve being born with this face, that even my mother could not love? Well? Answer me, damn it!" he screamed.

Storming out into the main room on the lake, several candelabras fell victim to his rage. The mirrors fared little better, and the reflective glass shattered, the shards falling out of the frame and on to the floor. Looking down, Erik saw himself reflected in each piece, his anger and heartbreak warping his twisted features into a grotesque vision that was more monster than man. Fire burned in his cloudy green eyes, his teeth bared in a snarl, and his skin burned bright red.

He dropped the candlestick and fell to his knees, overcome with guilt and shame. ' _My god…what is happening to me? Is this what I've become?_ ' Tears began to flow down his face, across his mouth, and dripping to the floor from his chin. Looking around at the subterranean dwelling, his shame grew even heavier: sheet music was scattered all across the floor, candelabras lying with their candles still burning, several of the sheets catching on fire.

On fire!

"Damn it! No! My music!" Erik yelled, running for the tiny kitchen on the far side of the cavern. Quickly grabbing a bucket, he dumped the water onto the sheets, dousing the flames, but also smearing and ruining several pieces of music. He stared at the soggy mess for several moments, before dropping to his knees once again and ghosting his hands over the destroyed staff lines and notes.

Burying his face in his hands, he started to sob again. ' _God…what have I done? It's gone…why must I ruin all that I touch? Why must I hurt all that matters to me in this cruel world?_ ' He forced himself to look at the paper once more, to see what piece had met its unfortunate end, and if he could possibly recreate it. The revelation of the title caused his face to pale even more than it already was, and he staggered to his feet, and towards the kitchen, deciding that the only recourse for what he had done was to forget, if only temporarily. To drown himself in liquid fire and regret. The sheets were left on the floor, where the title could still barely be made out…

Tuo Amore in me Perdere…

 _Your Love Will Destroy Me._

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

' _So…she has decided to call herself Rose. Rose DeNuit…very well, I shall allow her this, in public. When we're together, however…she will be whoever I want her to be._ ' The Vicomte thought.

He continued to walk down the hallway to her dressing room, where he could hear two sets of girls emanating from the doorway. He stopped and listened, but only a few snippets of conversation reached his ears. "…_like? I know you…experience. But really,…like? Maman won't say." Came the first voice. Not the masked woman, however. This voice was younger…sweeter, more innocent. Then the second voice followed, the one that sent shivers down his spine and made him curse the lack of room in his trousers. "Meg! This is…ask your Maman! I'm not…like! Besides, you…first!" The second voice responded indignantly. "But Christine! I don't…independent! Men are…smell bad, too!" The first declared, much to the apparent amusement of the second. "Well, they don't…of the time, anyway. Besides, you…be independent. But I'm…telling you, Meg!" The second voice said again.

The Vicomte knocked at the door, and was quickly granted entry by the second voice. The owner stood up at his entrance, and a shocked look came over her face before it was quickly hidden.

"Monsieur le Vicomte! This is a surprise!" Meg chirped. "Have you come to see C – I mean, Rose? She's the most wonderful singer! But then, I would assume her heard at the gala the other night, I saw you sitting in Box Three." She finished, rapidly getting more and more excited.

"Yes, I did have the pleasure of hearing Mademoiselle _DeNuit_ sing at the gala. Mademoiselle – Giry, was it? Would you please excuse us for a minute, I should like to speak to our new understudy Diva alone for a moment. Thank you." The Vicomte dismissed Meg.

Looking at Christine for directions, she left when Christine nodded. Turning to face the Vicomte, Christine asked, "Well, Monsieur, to what do I owe this _pleasure_? Last time we met, I thought that you would be deterred from pursuing me." She drawled.

He smirked, and replied, "My dear Mademoiselle, if you refer to your face, I have seen worse. You forget, or perhaps you don't know? My cousin has a very close friend who was injured in the war, and never has anyone batted an eyelash at his scars, once the situation was explained to him. Why should your face bother me?"

Christine rolled her eyes. "There is a difference, Monsieur, between a high-ranking man being injured and scarred on the battlefield in service to his country, and a common woman being scarred. But enough of this. What do you want?" she asked.

The Vicomte came closer and closer until Christine was forced to lift her head in order to see his eyes. There was nowhere for her to go, as her back was nearly touching the mirror. He raised his hand to stroke his fingers down her cheek, only for her to bat it away. He smirked at her spirit, and leaned in so that his mouth hovered just inches away from her ear. "What I want, my dear…is your company. It is common practice for a rising Prima Donna to, shall we say…grant the patron a private audience to secure her position in the future? I'm sure it would be to our _mutual_ benefit, Mademoiselle."

This entire time, Christine had been standing as still as she could, so he wouldn't be able to see what was coming. Once he was in the correct spot, Christine immediately brought her knee up between his legs, just as she had been taught, and caused the Vicomte to double over in pain and back away. "Agh! You little…you will pay for that!" he hissed.

Christine snorted and tossed her head, turning her back on him as she did so. "I wouldn't have had to do so, Monsieur, if you had not tried to force your company on me. You would do well to remember who I am, and what I am capable of. Stay away from me, Vicomte, I will have nothing to do with you. I will not grant you a private audience, common practice or not, I will not lay with you, as that is clearly your end goal, and I will not share your company in any way. Good day, Monsieur." She concluded, and proceeded to walk out the door and towards her new room.

The Vicomte watched her leave and curled further into himself as another wave of pain rolled through his body. ' _I will have you, Mademoiselle. Whether you wish to come willingly or not is of no matter to me. I would prefer you be willing, but if that isn't possible…I will still claim my right as patron._ ' He vowed, now even more determined to make her his.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

"Christine, that was amazing, what you did this morning." Meg gushed later that evening. "I can't remember the last time anyone had the courage to stand up to Carlotta like that! Did you see her face? She turned pinker than the awful gown she showed up in this morning!" she giggled.

Christine grinned at her across the table, and opened her mouth to respond, when Madame Giry cut in. "It was, indeed, impressive, my dear. But you must be careful – your career is only just starting, and it would not do for you to be dismissed before you can reach the heights I know you can. Do not cause too big of a scandal." She warned.

Christine grinned cheekily at her mother, and responded, "You mean an even bigger one than I've already caused?" Meg choked a bit on her wine and quickly covered her laughter with a fit of coughs at Madame Giry's sharp stare.

Said stare was then turned on her eldest daughter, and she said, "Yes. Some stir can be helpful – it attracts attention, and crowds. But too much will harm your career before it has even started. Do not challenge Carlotta."

Christine nodded in agreement, and smirked at her sister. Meg grinned into her chicken cordon bleu. "Maman?" she asked.

"Meg, eat your dinner. Any more talk, and it will get cold." Madame reprimanded.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

Christine lay in her new bed that night, watching the darkened sky. Meg slept peacefully on the other side of the room, softly snoring. A shooting star glanced across the night, and Christine thought, ' _make a wish. Well, I wish…_ ' then she considered. ' _What has wishing upon falling stars ever brought me? The wished don't really come true, not unless you make them. If I want the problem with Erik to be solved, I need to do so myself. I just don't know if I can forgive him. And furthermore…I'm not sure I can fix this._ _ **What if you hadn't left?**_ _I had to. I had to think._ _ **You could have shut yourself in your room.**_ _I couldn't look into his eyes…_ _ **and know that he only did this because he loves you?**_ _Yes…_ _ **Don't you love him?**_ _Yes! Of course I do!_ _ **Then why are you sleeping up here? Why do you persist in this, when you are only causing yourself and him pain?**_ _Because what he did was wrong, and I have a right to know the truth! What if he keeps other secrets from me? Ones that could do even more damage?_ _ **And what if he doesn't? What if that was his greatest secret?**_ _He should have told me! Don't I deserve to know the truth?_ _ **Yes, but look how you reacted. He didn't tell you because he feared exactly this would happen. Can you blame him?**_ _Yes! If he had told me two years ago, like he had planned to, then this wouldn't have happened! I would still trust him, I'd still be down there, and neither of us would be in this much pain!'_

Tired of tossing and turning, she got up and wrapped herself in the robe hanging on the wall. Exiting the room quietly, she went to the one place in the opera house that she had avoided for fifteen years. The chapel. Kneeling before the altar, she lit a candle as she had once seen a ballerina do, and set it in the holder before one of the portraits. The name on the frame caught the light of the flame, and she read, Gustave Daae. ' _My father…_ ' she wondered. She picked up the portrait and held it closer to the candle to see it better. ' _My god…Madame was right, I look just like him…'_ And the resemblance between father and daughter was clear. She had inherited her mother's blue eyes and fine boned frame, but everything else…clearly came from this man. She had his dark chocolate curls, pale, snowy skin, and his gentle, amused smile, as if he was keeping a great joke from the world.

Tears came to her eyes, and she began to sob quietly. "Father…you are indeed, my father." Hiding her face in her hands, she wept until she had no more tears to cry. When she could cry no more, she clasped her hands together and prayed for the first time, to a god she had decided long ago didn't care. "Please…if you're there, please, for once, listen to me. I'm being torn apart, and for the first time, I don't know what to do. The man I love has gravely betrayed my trust, and hurt me terribly. I don't know if I can ever trust him again, but I still love him. What do I do? Madame Giry told me to take some time away and think, but all I can think of is him. Please, god, if you're really there, give me a sign. Show me what I should do!"

"No one can tell you what to do, child." A voice came from behind. Christine whirled around in shock, and beheld a woman, her face hidden by the shadows created by the flickering candle. "And in this case, god cannot help you. You must solve this problem without his help." She came closer, and knelt on the stone floor next to Christine. Seeing her face for the first time, she was revealed to be an old woman, her blonde hair streaked with silver and left loose about her shoulders. Her smile was easy and reassuring, while her eyes revealed wisdom far beyond that which can be gathered in a single lifetime.

"W-who are you?" Christine asked. "I've never seen you before. Are you one of the seamstresses?"

The old woman shook her head and chuckled. Bringing her hands up for Christine to see, she said, "Non, dear, I am not. Even when my hands did not shake from age, I was never much of a seamstress." She folded her hands back in her lap, looking at the angel painted above the tiny altar. "I have been here many years, and seen many things. However, eventually I have been…forgotten."

"That doesn't answer my question. Who are you? What is your name? And what are you doing here?" Christine asked again.

The old woman waved her hand to indicate that it was not important. "What is your name, my girl? I've never seen your face here before either. And I never forget a face." She assured Christine.

"My name is Chr-Rose. Yes, Rose. Rose DeNuit. I'm the new understudy to the diva." She answered.

The old lady looked at her in amusement. "Try again, dear. That isn't your real name, though I understand why you would keep that private. But I promise, you can trust me."

Christine looked down at her lap, feeling an unexpected sense of shame well up in her for lying to her companion. "You're right, it's not. My name's Christine." She admitted.

The lady smiled. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Christine." She looked at the picture the young masked girl held, and said, "What a lovely portrait. Quite a fine-looking man. You bear quite a resemblance to him…is he a relation of yours?" She inquired.

"My father, Gustave." Christine responded.

"Ah, your father, of course. He must be very proud of you, to have achieved such a position as the diva's understudy." She said.

Christine's wavering smile fell from her face. "I wouldn't know. I never knew him – he died just before I was born."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Christine. I didn't mean to cause you pain." She apologized. She studied the younger woman intently, concern furrowing her brow. "You seem troubled, my child. What ails you so that you must unburden yourself to god at this time of night, rather than waiting until morning?" she asked.

Christine looked at her, and searched her eyes for any sign of duplicity. Finding none, she took a deep breath, then released it. "If I tell you, you must swear never to breathe a word of it to another living soul. Please understand, it's not that I'm mistrustful; this simply must remain private." She pleaded.

"Of course, my dear. I give you my word, anything you say shall not leave this room." She promised.

"Alright." Christine sighed. With that, she proceeded to unload the entire sordid tale of her life onto the strange woman, starting from the moment Meg tapped on her shoulder, and ending with the moment she walked in to the chapel. "So you see, I'm not sure what, if anything, can be done. I love him, but if I can't trust him, what is there to fix?" She said defeatedly.

Her companion considered her words for a long moment, before turning to Christine. "Child, may I give you some advice? From what you have told me of him, your beloved is a good man. Yes, he has made a grave mistake, and hurt you badly, but all men make mistakes. We are not infallible, my girl, nor are we perfect. If we were perfect, we would not be human. You say he has shown regret for what he has done? That is good. It means he understands what he has done wrong. He will learn from this mistake, and be a better man for it." She told Christine. Seeing that the girl was still unconvinced, she sighed, and said, "Ultimately, dear, the choice is still yours. But mark my words: prolonging this separation will only increase your pain." Her quiet voice echoed through the chapel. Seeing that Christine had buried her head between her legs, she got up, and made as if to leave her alone, before pausing, and turning halfway so Christine could see only part of her profile. "My dear, it is late. I think it would be wise to go back to your room and try to sleep. And tomorrow, perhaps you should begin to unpack?" her voice drifted off and left only silence in its wake.

Startled by her companion's parting words, Christine jerked her head up, looking around for the old woman, but there was no sign that there had ever been anyone there. ' _What was that? Was I dreaming? Was she even real? Where did she go? And what did she mean by begin to unpack?'_ Christine wondered. The only answer to her silent questions was the quiet flickering of the candle flame. Blowing it out, she left and headed back up to her room, leaving the chapel silent and empty once more.

 **A/N: So, what'd you think? Please leave a review if you want me to continue this story, I'm not going to update much if it only gets 3-4 reviews per chapter. That being said, I would like to say thank you so much to everyone who does review, particularly PhantomFan01. She has reviewed every single chapter, and is often the first one to post a review. In addition to that, I'd like to ask one more favor of you all: on my profile, I have a list of stories I'd like to write. I want to start on another one, since The Hidden Man only has a few more chapters in it. If you would go to my profile and let me know in a review which story you think I should start on, that would be great. Thank you!**


	8. Reunion

**A/N: Hey, I'm back! So, this is officially the one-year anniversary of when I first started publishing this story. It's gone by so fast, right? I couldn't believe it. Anyway, I thought that to celebrate, I would post a certain long-awaited chapter. Hold on to your hats, masks, capes, and other assorted clothing items, because you're in for quite a ride. This is…the reunion!**

The next morning, Christine arrived onstage promptly at eight o'clock, receiving several curious stares from the other cast members. Ignoring them, she walked over to Monsieur Reyer at his summons. "You wished to speak to me, Monsieur?"

"Ah, yes, Mademoiselle DeNuit. I-"

"Rose." She interrupted him. At his questioning look, she smiled, "Just call me Rose, please, Monsieur. I care not for pointless formalities, and I have no wish to become more a title than a person."

Reyer looked shocked, but continued, "Very well, Mad-Rose, apologies. It would seem that La Carlotta isn't going to be here today; she cited that she would not come back until the _little masked toad_ was gone from the theatre. But, as you are, in fact, her understudy, this holds significantly less clout than it did a mere two days ago." They shared a quiet smile and laugh before resuming their professionalism. "As such, could you please report to the costume area? You will need to be fitted for your own, as you obviously won't fit in hers. Don't worry about rehearsal this morning, Madame Giry decided that her girls needed quite a bit more work with the ballet in act iii, and judging from her expression, that may take quite a while."

Christine nodded, and left to be fitted. Introducing herself to the head seamstress, the only reply she received from the gruff middle-aged woman was a curt "At least you're skinny. Annaliese will take care of you." Annaleise was then revealed to be a tiny, brown-haired fifteen year old who reminded Christine of nothing so much as a mouse. With a high, somewhat squeaky voice that perfectly complemented her first impression of the girl, Annaliese requested that "Madame Understudy" step onto a stool, raise her arms, and hold still.

After she was fitted for her costume, Christine was informed by a small apprentice stagehand with a front tooth missing and grubby hands that the work with the ballerinas was taking longer than expected, and that she wouldn't be required at rehearsal until the following morning. Thanking the boy, Christine closed the door and sat down at the vanity to brush her hair. As she detangled the wild strands, her thoughts to the encounter in the chapel the night before, and of the mysterious woman's strange message. _Unpack? What in the world could she possibly mean by that?_ Christine wondered. _Well, even if I don't understand it, I might as well take her advice, since I have the day off._

She returned to the small dorm room that she shared with Meg, and pulled the small rucksack out from underneath the bed she had slept on for the past few nights. Opening it, she put the several shirts, pairs of pants, and her spare pair of boots aside in the tiny wardrobe she now shared with Meg. At the bottom of the rucksack, she found several pieces of paper. _What the…?_ She thought. Picking them up one by one, she found several drawings of herself. Finding one in particular, she smiled to herself, remembering the day Erik had coaxed her into posing for him so he could draw her. _'Come on, Christine! Just lay back and hold still. I'll sketch you, and then I'll paint color onto it.' She rolled her eyes, but acquiesced, and lay down on the chaise, allowing her lover to position her limbs in a pattern he found pleasing. She laid there for an hour, watching his head appear and disappear from behind the paper, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth at some spots. 'Are you done?' she questioned after her limbs had become stiff from holding their position for such an extended period of time. He peeked out from the other side of the paper one last time, sighed, and said, 'Yes, Christine, I'm done. Would you like to see it?' she sat up, stretched, and nodded vigorously._ _It was a beautiful drawing, of her, masked side facing down into the chaise, curled up on her side reading a book. 'Erik, this is amazing! Where did you learn to draw like this?' she asked. He smiled and chuckled. 'When there was nothing else to do, I often drew to alleviate my boredom.'_

The final paper she pulled out, however, wasn't a drawing. _What in the world is this?_ Christine wondered. Holding it up to the meager light allowed by the tiny window, she began to read the words written on the paper. It read,

 _To my dearest love, from your forever devoted Erik._

 _Ne'er forsake me, here remain,_

 _Share with me my dark domain!_

 _Beautiful flower of maidenkind,_

 _Here in the bower where our love's_

 _Enshrined…_

 _Give me your healing care,_

 _And free me from this dark despair!_

 _Tender scion of Philomel,_

 _Here in the shadows, weave_

 _Your magic spell._

 _My gentle maiden, weave your magic…_

 _Spell…_

 _He…he wrote this…for me?_ Christine gaped at the paper in shock. Lances of regret, pain, and love speared through her already-damaged heart, and every wall she had erected over the last several days was blown to kingdom come. Sobs shook her frame, and overwhelmed her. She wept for the longest she ever had since she was a child, until her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, and some of the more dramatic dancers would fear that her cheeks would be permanently stained with the tracks of her tears.

 _All he ever did was love me, and seek to protect me. The woman was right, he may have made a mistake, but he loves me, completely, and only sought to protect me. I-I must go to him. He needs to know that I've forgiven him!_ With her decision made and her conviction as solid as the wood surrounding her, she ventured out into the corridor, looking for the nearest secret passage that would lead her to the cellars. She rushed, pell-mell, down the damp cellar to the lake. Not seeing the gondola, she made her way to the secret path that skirted the lake. Arriving at their home, she gaped in shock at the carnage that greeted her. Candlesticks lay on their sides, and mirror shards covered the stone floor. Soggy, ruined pieces of music, notes and staff lines blurred beyond recognition, lay on the ground where he had shoved them violently off of the pipe organ. Books lay facedown, open on the floor, just more victims to what must have been a violent rage.

"Christine…?" came the hoarse whisper from off to her right. She turned, and beheld the disheveled visage of her beloved: this morning's stubble remained on his chin, rather than clean-shaven, as was his preference, his clothes clearly slept in, his eyes bloodshot and bleary, with no mask that could hide them. "Are you truly here? Or are you just another dream, now to turn to a nightmare once again?" he asked bitterly.

She rushed to his side and clutched his arm. "No, my love, I'm real, I swear it. I'm here, in the flesh, and I'm not going to leave again." She took his hand and pressed it to the undamaged side of her face. "Touch me, Erik, feel me. Feel that I am real. Know for yourself the truth." She begged.

"Christine…?" he whispered once again. She turned her face into his hand and kissed his palm. "Christine!" he exclaimed. He grabbed her hard around her waist, clutching her to him, burying the damaged side of his face in her coils of hair, reveling in the softness of them, finer than the lightest and airiest of silks.

Christine choked back another sob, and buried her face deeper into Erik's shoulder. The porcelain of her mask pressed into her face, the sharp corner at the top especially painful. She removed her face from him for a moment, just long enough to tear it off, before she buried her face in his shoulder again.

"Chris-Christine, I –" he started.

"Shush, Erik. It's alright. I know. There's no need to talk about it now, it can wait until morning. Come on, let's just go to bed." She grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the bedroom, and the bed, that it was apparent they were again going to share.

Erik's tired, aching mind, still too much in recovery from his attack on the brandy bottle from last night, couldn't comprehend her intentions. "Christine…it's barely past noon. We can't go to sleep yet." He pointed out.

She gave him her own pointed look. "Well, I was going to suggest something _other_ than sleep, but you're clearly in no shape for anything but. Come along." She said, her tone of voice brooking no argument.

He followed her quietly, only stumbling once. Once they were both in bed, he slipped his arm around her waist and hauled her to him. Christine threw her arm over his bare chest and buried her face in his shoulder, breathing in his much-missed scent, now tinged with the slight acrid smell of the brandy. Erik fell asleep almost immediately, and Christine crept out of the bed quietly and surveyed the damage he had caused. Shaking her head and making a note to herself to speak to him about it, she began to try to right the mess. Setting the candlesticks upright once again, she dropped to her knees in front of the largest pile of music lying on the floor. Sorting through it to attempt to see what could be saved, and what they would have to rewrite, she worked quietly for another hour.

The shattered mirrors were the last to be cleaned. Fetching the rarely-used broom from the back chamber, she put all of the pieces she could find into a bucket, and then took the broom and bucket on to the gondola, dumping the shards into the middle of the lake, and dunked the broom several times to remove any miniscule traces left.

Returning to shore, she lit a fire in the fireplace, and picked up the book that she had left on the chaise lounge several days beforehand when she left.

When Erik awoke, wincing at his headache, he sat up and looked about, suddenly panicking. _Christine came back! She was here, I held her in my arms! Where'd she go? Was she really here, or was it just another dream of her? No, it can't be, none of the dreams were ever that realistic. But where is she, if she came back?_ Throwing himself from the bed, he stumbled into the main room, and suddenly stopped. He looked around at the chamber, hope rising in his heart. _It's cleaned up. She has to be here!_ He walked to the small area they used as their lounge, where he saw Christine lying on the chaise, reading a book in front of the fire. "Christine?"

She sat up, smiled at him, and stretched. He watched her, drinking in her slim form. Extending her hand in clear invitation, he accepted it, sitting next to her and staring into the fire. She nestled into him, laying her head on his shoulder as he again slipped his arms around her waist. "Christine, you stopped me last night, but now, please, just let me say what I need to say, without interruption. I'm so sorry for keeping the truth of your past from you. I truly did intend to tell you, but the right time never seemed to come. I know that isn't an excuse, and have every right to call me a heartless coward, for that is truly what I am. I was so afraid of losing you to the world above that I kept the truth from you, to keep you here with me. I don't deserve your forgiveness, Christine, but just know that I am so, incredibly sorry for what I did." He said quietly.

Christine closed her eyes and smiled. "All is forgiven, Erik. I know that you never meant to hurt me, and let's just say…I got some very good advice from a rather mysterious source."

"What source?" he asked.

She shook her head. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Erik, there's something else I need to talk to you about." He looked at her askance, fearing what she was going to ask him. "You tried to drink away your pain last night, didn't you? And that's how the other room ended up destroyed?" he nodded, ashamed at his loss of control. She sighed in frustration. "Erik, you can't do that! You can't try to drown your sorrows and then wreck the chamber every time I leave! You need to be able to keep it together, and take care of yourself if something happens to me! Erik, I want you to promise me that you won't ever do this again. I couldn't bear it if you did so next time we fought, and ended up seriously hurting yourself! Promise me, Erik!" she begged, shaking him, and verging on hysterical.

"Christine, Christine! Calm down. I swear to you, I won't let this happen again. That was a mistake, and the headache I have right now would be deterrent enough even if you hadn't made me give my word." He said. She calmed, and settled back into him. They stayed that way for a while, just enjoying each other's warmth and the contact between the two of them.

Eventually, Christine stirred, and turned to Erik. "There's one more thing I want to tell you." At his questioning look, she continued, "I'm the understudy for La Carlotta now, at least for this season. I'm not sure if I'll continue after this season, or if I'll try to help the managers find a new diva."

Erik nodded. "I saw your confrontation with her yesterday onstage. Very impressive, mon amour. To put her in her place without condemning yourself. She did deserve it. However, I sense that this isn't all you have to say. Out with it." He joked.

She bit her lip, and glanced upwards at him through her eyelashes. "Well…the Masquerade Ball is soon, and I shall, of course, be expected to attend. Will you come with me?" she asked.

"Of course I will, but that can't be it. You gave up chewing your lip several years ago, and only do it anymore when you're extremely nervous. What is it?"

She sighed, and looked into her wringing hands. Drawing a deep breath, she blurted out, "I also thought you could present your Don Juan to the managers at the ball, and get them to perform it."

Erik sat stock-still, shocked that she would suggest such a thing. "I don't know, Christine. It'd be quite a risk for them to take. The orchestral score on its own is difficult enough that it would take them months to master, let alone the vocals! I don't know that Piangi could sing Don Juan's part, and you're the only one capable of singing Aminta, you know that. Even with suitable singers, how do you expect me to be able to convince the managers to produce it without them dismissing me on the spot as just another nobody composer? Without any credentials, any previously published compositions, without even a surname?" he questioned her.

She smiled. "Leave that to me. I'll tell them you're a close friend of mine, who writes music, but prefers to keep to himself for personal reasons, and for those same reasons, hasn't published any of his work under his own name. Simply pick a stage name, as I did, and we'll publish a few pieces between now and the ball. Once I inform them that this new, unknown star composer is a friend of mine, they'll be falling all over themselves to produce the Don Juan!" she exclaimed in excitement.

Doubt still clouded Erik's heart, but as he looked into Christine's face, her eyes bright with excitement, cheeks flushed, and her smile stretching the whole of her face, he didn't have the heart to deny her her wish. "Very well, Christine. I'll present the Don Juan at the ball, and you'll convince the managers to put it on." A wicked light then started to shine in his eye. "I will, of course, expect proper compensation, mon amour."

She smirked back. "Oh? And how do you suggest I do so, Monsieur?" she teased, leaning forward and pressing her body against his.

The glint in his eyes shone brighter, and the two emerald orbs darkened considerably, tracing her form upwards slowly. "I think we can come up with something, my dear." He purred against her neck.

Let it suffice to say, Christine had no objections.

 **A/N: Whew! Yes, I know, it's rather short, but I didn't want to rush anything, and it seemed complete right there. I don't own the poem, but I don't know who does, I just know that it comes from some version of Phantom. Also, please check out my new oneshot, "Echoes of Love", as I think you'll enjoy that as well. Please review, and I'll see you next time!**


	9. Innocent conversations

"So…you're forgiving him, and going back down there to live with him already? Christine, are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, he did lie to you about your whole life. Are you sure you can trust him?" Meg asked, concerned for her newfound sister.

Christine smiled patiently. "Yes, Meg, I'm positive. I spoke with him last night, and he explained why he did everything he did. I may not agree with what he did, but I can understand why. He only wished for my happiness, don't you see? He may have gone about it wrong, but his motives were pure. Besides, you should have seen him down there Meg, he was an absolute mess. And so was our home! There was music and candlesticks everywhere, three mirrors were shattered with glass all over the floor, and Erik lying there drunk out of his mind. _That_ was what really convinced me, Meg. He's a mess if I'm not there, he needs me. You'll understand one day when you fall in love."

Meg scowled in petulance and stamped her foot. "I told you, I'm not ever going to get married. Men are smelly, overbearing brutes, and not a single one is worth the trouble he'll cause me."

Christine just smiled sideways at her sister. She found Meg's insistence on spinsterhood charming and endearing, a reminder of her own spell of stubbornness regarding Erik and her feelings for him before she had finally given in. An idea suddenly sprang to mind. "Why don't you come down to see us sometimes? Perhaps if you become friends with Erik, your opinion of men won't be so negative. They're not _all_ bad, Meg, although that Buquet, I might have to do something about."

Meg looked at her hesitantly. "Well…I _would_ like to see your home…and the way you've described him, he doesn't sound _too_ bad…yes. All right, I will come see you. But how will I get down to your home? I've heard that The Phantom and The Siren protect their lair viciously, and have many dangerous traps riddled all over the path!" Meg said dramatically, eyes opened wide.

Christine laughed. "Well, we do have a few traps set up, but not nearly as many as you might think. Many of them are just for rats, honestly, and not pests of the two-legged variety. I will draw you a map showing you where the entrances with the least amount of traps are. But you mustn't come down without me, at least for a while, until you know the paths better. The map should only be for emergencies."

Meg nodded eagerly. "I won't use it unless I have to, I promise!" she told Christine. "But when should I come down? Do we go through a secret passage? I've heard that there are some in the walls, but I've never been able to find any of the entrances." She said.

Christine grinned. "There are secret tunnels all over the opera house, Erik thinks they were used as shortcuts during construction. Many of the entrances were sealed off afterwards, with only the ones near the chapel and the Rue Scribe entrance left untouched for maintenance. Officially, anyway. In reality, most of them are still open and functioning, most people simply don't know where they are. I'll bring you down the one in my dressing room, though, since it's the one with the fewest traps."

"Why does it have fewer traps than the others?"

"Erik put torch holders up all along that hallway, so he could use them to play tricks on La Carlotta. He replaced the original mirror with clouded glass, which reflects if the hallway behind it is dark. All those times Carlotta has claimed to see glowing shapes and smoke coming from the mirror? That was Erik."

"I 'ave told you apes, I will _not_ 'ave any understudy! And I don't _care_ if she replace me tonight, I will not work with zat toad!" Carlotta shrieked.

Andre and Firman looked at each other and sighed. "Signora, we understand your objections…" Firman said.

"Quite thoroughly!" Andre piped in before a glare from his friend silenced him.

"However, we simply cannot accommodate you in this situation. The very first night of our management, you refused to perform, and were it not for the timely intervention of Madame Giry and Mademoiselle DeNuit, we would have had to refund a full house, costing us many thousands of francs. Now, we understand that the previous management may have… _catered_ …to your requests, Signora…" an image of the pale, wrung out Monsieur Lefevre sprung to the mind of each occupant of the office, his health and nerves worn to pieces by the demands of his diva…among other things. "But in this case, we shall not. Mademoiselle DeNuit _will_ be your understudy, and _will_ take your place should you ever feel unable to perform. Is that clear?" he asked sharply.

Carlotta's face turned a ghastly shade of red, clashing violently with her pink dress and hennaed hair. Her mouth twisted into a vicious frown, as she bit out, "Crystal clear." She got up and stormed from the office, the giant crinoline she wore under her dress giving her the appearance of an extremely angry pink carnation.

Andre and Firman looked at each other wearily, and Firman stood up and poured each of them several fingers worths of brandy, a silent agreement between the two of them that the alcohol would be absolutely necessary to deal with the oncoming storm.

Carlotta stomped down the hallways, a single objective in mind: to find the masked chit who had taken her place, and send her back to wherever she came from. After many twists, turns, and empty rooms, she finally found her understudy being fitted for her costume.

The sight of her rival being measured for Elissa's costume, _her_ costume, filled Carlotta with a seething rage which left her grinding her teeth together, and made her already-strong Italian accent nearly indecipherable. "And just what do zou sink zou are doing?" she ground out dangerously.

The masked girl spared her only the shortest and most dispassionate of glances, further fueling Carlotta's rage. She caused grown men to quake in their boots, and yet this girl didn't even think her worthy of actually being looked at? Intolerable!

"I'm being fitted for my costume, Signora, as I clearly can't fit into yours." She drawled carelessly, arms held over her head as the nervous young costumers assigned to her flitted about making adjustments.

"And why you need a costume, little toad? You will never perform on zat stage again! You are just my understudy! Ze crowds will never come to see you! Zey come to see me!" Carlotta screamed.

Christine rolled her eyes. "Then why are you here yelling at me, Signora? Why are you so scared of me? If they love you so, shouldn't you have nothing to fear?"

Carlotta smirked at her. "I am not scared, toad. I am simply telling you ze truth. Vy should I be afraid of you?" she sneered, turning and walking away. Projecting an air of unshakable confidence, inside, she was churning with confusion and…dare she say it…fear? No, not fear, never fear, just…nervousness. Yes, nervousness, that was it. The same way she felt on an opening night, it was completely normal. However…perhaps it would be advisable for her to stay home tonight. Yes, she'd stay home. Let the toad sing! She'd come back the next morning, and the crowds and managers would beg for her to come back. That would teach them!

That night, after another performance by Christine after yet another tantrum from Carlotta, the Vicomte straightened his cravat, preparing for battle with the unwilling object of his obsession. He knocked at the heavy mahogany door of her dressing room.

Nothing.

He knocked again.

Still nothing.

"Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte! Another wonderful performance tonight, wouldn't you agree?" a rather intoxicated Monsieur Firman asked him.

"Indeed, Monsieur, it was. In fact, I was just looking for Mademoiselle DeNuit in order to congratulate her, but she doesn't seem to be in her dressing room. I don't suppose you would happen to know where she is?" he asked politely.

Firman appeared to think, but eventually shook his head. "If she isn't in there, Monsieur le Vicomte, I'm not sure where she would be. I do apo-pologize." He slurred, letting out a disgusting belch when he was done.

The Vicomte excused himself, and once he was out of sight of the drunken manager, stormed down the hallway he knew led to the performer's rooms. "Mademoiselle DeNuit! I wish to speak with you!" he yelled, startling several ballerinas who were entertaining patrons. He stormed down multiple hallways, throwing open doors, interrupting numerous couples, and generally causing trouble.

Meg was standing and talking to one of the other dancers when she heard the commotion. She turned and saw the opera's main patron stalking down the hallways screaming for Christine, but it was too late. He slammed straight into her, knocking her to the floor and causing the other girl to flee. He barely stopped to mutter an apology, but when he did, the look in his eyes terrified Meg. They looked mad, on the verge of insanity, with fires raging inside of them which rivaled those apparently contained in Hell. She scrambled into her bedroom, breathing hard and deep. She turned to see where he had come from, and was met with the pale faces of her peers poking around their doors. _This is getting to be too much. I need to warn Christine!_ Meg thought.

"Christine, you don't understand, he was absolutely unhinged! I was surprised that smoke wasn't coming out of his ears!" Meg stressed. "It was absolutely terrifying! You _must_ be careful, I don't know what he might do when you continue to rebuff him. And what if he discovers that we're half-sisters? He might try to use Maman and I to force you to bend to his will!" she gasped.

Christine simply watched Meg pace back and forth in amusement, trying valiantly not to laugh. "Meg, I highly doubt that he'll ever discover our connection, and even if he does, I think Madame Giry is more than capable of taking care of herself. I shouldn't like to be on the receiving end of her cane." Seeing the scared, shaken look in her sister's eyes, however, Christine quickly abandoned her levity and became serious. "Meg, if you're truly afraid of what he might do to you, I can teach you how to defend yourself. I can give you lessons when you come down, just as Erik taught me." She offered.

Meg lit up momentarily, but just as quickly her face sank. "I would love that, Christine, but I doubt that Maman would allow it. She's determined that at least one of her daughters will be a lady!" Meg replied.

Christine smirked. "We don't have to tell her, Meg. Besides, who says you aren't a lady simply because you're able to defend yourself? As long as you sit and stand up straight, and be careful of how you speak, no one will ever think of you as anything other than a lady."

Meg considered this. "I suppose you're right, Christine. It would be reassuring to know that I'm capable of taking care of myself, should the situation ever arise when such skills are needed."

That night, as Erik lay in bed next to the slumbering Christine, he stared up at the rock ceiling in peaceful contemplation. Things were once more right in his world, but he had a prophetic notion that such peace was not to last.

He sighed loudly and turned over, waking Christine as a result. "Erik?" she murmured sleepily, rather confused as to why he would be awake well past midnight. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Erik looked at Christine's sleep-weighted face, her enormous blue eyes blinking blearily at him, sighed again, and pulled her closer to him. "I fear that this peace will be all too short-lived, my love. Peace is, by its very nature, tenuous, but this one I fear is even more so. The _boy_ will not give up in his pursuit of you, despite your continued rejections."

Christine stroked his jaw, feeling the tiny pricks of stubble on her fingertips. "Darling, what happens will happen, and there is nothing we can do to prevent this."

"I know, but I cannot help but fear what comes. I cannot help but fear losing you."

"You will never lose me, I swear it. Now go to sleep; there's rehearsal early tomorrow." She rolled over again and quickly resumed her slumber.

 **A/N: sorry, I know it's short, I just wanted to get it published before It turned into a year between updates.**


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